Bookseller of Woe

Working retail precludes any chance of avoiding interaction with the public. Ergo abuse. The wide spectrum of requirement an individual consumer anticipates creates an ever-shifting crest of expectation and writes the unwritten rules of the shopping experience. Most of these expectations are based around customer service indulgence. The squeaky wheel gets the grease, so what can I do to make you happy and solve your merchandise ills? We the retail booksellers must dance, changing partners often, to get to the end of the shift. I'm quite good at the bookwench shuffle. (There is a crab-like, sidling motion, Sometimes of escape.)

The thing is, I like being a bookseller. A year and a half stint in Nationwide's call center taught me to find my own motivation, and how to placate people using only my voice and my words. (Also in the shortest time possible, because stats are king.) Thus I get a thrill out of winning a given interaction. Answer question, solve problem, lift spirits, kthnxbai. I loved the angry callers. Give me five minutes and I'll have them thanking my parents for bringing me life. Yes, I'm that good. Applying this to customer service in a bookstore may as well be the greatest combination of flavors since mocha and raspberry. There are people everywhere who want to read books. (Buy?) I flutter like a lascivious butterfly, dropping on each unsuspecting consumer blossom and winning that nectar of an upsell, only to flit to another for a new fix.

I know the rules. I listen. I dance. When people aren't abusing the right of consumerism, it's beautiful.

February 19th, 2011, the rules changed at my Borders.

My options for placation and resources for awesome are diminished if not dashed underfoot. My ability to see the worth of my efforts flags. We can't even keep the store organized. It's a nightmare. Now the consumer demands his rights and is shut down. No, you can't hang around and not buy anything. No, you can't use our bathroom. No, we can't help you find that book you wanted. No, you can't return anything. No, I can't take your coupon. No, you can't sit there.

I'm so sorry I can't give you these things. Because now you hate me and the frustrations of a consumer are the stuff of legend. No one appreciates the suspension of rights or negation of the sole bargaining chip of one's well-earned money. No more rampant, puppydog clamor for your business. If you don't want to buy from us, someone else will. It's all gotta go.

I've taken a cruel liking to calling the bluffs of the manipulative consumer, particularly when I offer to put back their books when they threaten to leave. But it is a sad amusement. Once upon a time, I could win that moment and everyone would be happy. Now I can never win.

When the consumer's reality is damaged beyond the point the ego and can absorb the impact, a curious thing happens. Intelligent, well-meaning people suddenly achieve critical mass and blow radiation-laced malice over every surface. Name calling and insults are common. Accusations of discrimination of any perceived minority are thrown. So are pens. When the rules break down, so does the order of society.

It's been a month of this. Now we're down to three final weeks. I can safely say that this is not a good time for me. But I am looking forward to the return of customer engagement rules. I'm transferring to a larger, successful Borders store, actively managed and a five minute drive from my house. I'll learn a new store, begin the snapshot knowledge of store inventory, and meet new regulars. I will have the tools and the opportunity to win again. And again.

For now, a bookseller's shift focuses on survival. I took the offer to sell the fixtures for some active investment in my own day. Selling is selling, after all. I'm turning back on my customer service girl mode. I'm happier when I can help. Last night a father asked me to find his distracted son something educational. I turned to the boy and asked him, “What is your favorite book?” We pawed the hopelessly disfigured arrangement of children's books. I pitched one, another, and then handed him a hardbound copy of The Tale of Despereaux. His eyes widened when I spoke of a heroic mouse. Then I convinced his father it was the best purchase he could make for his boy.

I won.

Angle of Approach

We are all a little weird and life's a little weird, and when we find someone whose weirdness is compatible with ours, we join up with them and fall in mutual weirdness and call it love.
Theodor Suess Geisel

I feel compelled to record this here.

Love

Sandi and I clean the bathrooms at work. We're not to thrilled about it, since the exertion at the beginning of the day leaves one sweaty and stinky for the rest of the shift. But we're both OCD and enjoy seeing our environment brighten in the process of cleaning. I brought a bandanna to leave at work for these mornings. Gloves are great, but wiping the hair away from your eyes with a latex mitt previously scrubbing out a toilet is unpleasant. Seeing Sandi suffering with this, I decided to bring her one of my many bandannas hiding in my sewing box.

Camo or pirates? Not so much Sandi's style. But then I found the kerchief I rescued from my grandmother's house after she died. I only saw her wear it in photos older than myself. So I gave it to Sandi and helped her figure out how to tie it on. Sandi loves family, and she resisted taking a possession that belonged to my dead grandmother. I told her if we ever stop working together, we could discuss the future of the headscarf.

Two weeks ago, Borders filed Chapter 11 and announced plans to close our store.

I've been a troll since it started. The liquidation sale crowds are like Christmas without the goodwill. My customer service skills trampled beneath the common lust for a good deal. Our store is trashed every day and we the staff struggle to make a phoenix transformation out of the ashes each night. I pick fights with rude customers, just to take out a lash of aggression and ride the lick of adrenaline that propels me further into anti-social behavior.

But once I've pried my head out of my ass, I've noticed an outpouring of love from the guests. They may not be adept at expressing support and compassion, and in some cases we wind up back in the troll situation. Nary an hour can pass without someone telling me how sad they are the store is closing, how much they loved it and for how long, and expressing a deep and sincere hope that I find work at another Borders or, lacking that, offering encouragement that opportunities will come my way.

I've offered the divine defenestration analogy. God doesn't close a door without throwing you through a window. It's a poor response to such genuine concern and support. I'm not myself when I'm not helping others to find their literary heart's desire. Which is to say, I'm not me if I'm not loving.

I reviewed my old memoir project and journal from the last year and before. Invited to my supervisor's wedding in Ohio, I mention not being able to understand why anyone would want to get married. Coming up on twelve months in Las Vegas, my time has been dogged by the issues surrounding extraction from my marriage both financially and legally. I've jumped hoops with insurance companies, banks, state and federal agencies in order to reclaim my independence. I hate registering my marital status as divorced when I would much rather be single.

Martin never fails to support me in all my craziness, be it economical or existential. Despite all the bullshit of closing the store and securing future employment, Martin keeps me grounded. I gloated to my coworker about our charming mornings together. She asked me why I wasn't married yet.

From the memoir project, written prior to my divorce,

I don’t believe anyone can love me.

I'm not even thinking in terms of attraction. I mean wholesale, undying approval and love. Forever love. Love in concept. Love that will fight all your bullshit just to love you more. I can’t say whether I believe I am unlovable, or if that kind of a love exists. I can’t use the gracious term “lovemaking” anymore. It’s all just sex. My own approval issues in my marriage taint the very institution, which espouses the very ideal of romantic love. I can’t imagine anyone wanting to get married. I can’t fathom why it would make anything better.

Much about that statement is not longer valid. But not all.

I don't want to be married again. Domestic partnership is all well and good. And hey, it would be nice to be on Martin's insurance since mine is evaporating once the store closes. I do believe we are already each the others beneficiary in life insurance and retirement fund cases. It's amusing. Homosexual couples are fighting for recognition in marriage at a level I don't want. I would prefer a civil union and my own name, thankyouverymuch.

My uncle and his girlfriend are in much the same boat. His marriage ended so bitterly that his partner of nearly twenty years will never be his wife. I don't know if common-law marriage exists in their home state of Missouri, but it certainly doesn't here in Nevada.

I love Martin. It's the background music of our lives. We make dinner, the cats go crazy, I love him. We go for a drive, we rock out, I love him. I pay my auto insurance, I write on my blog, I love him. It is the thing we do and it is as simple as breathing. I am still blissfully, stupidly happy here with him. I have a Good Thing going.

But it isn't enough to make me want to lose my name and independent legal status again. Nevada isn't as misogynistic as Ohio when it comes to legal identity, but back home I had to cart my certified marriage abstract around with me because two forms of ID in my maiden name just aren't enough. I left my insurance agency because I couldn't get my ex of my policy on my own say-so.

I don't want the greatest love to become something I must scourge my life emotionally and financially to be rid of.

Sandi took the news about the store hard. She survived cancer. She is the sole provider in her marriage. When making to leave the store in the midst of the hurricane of closeout sales, I came around the counter to give her a hug. Tears sprang to my eyes when I made the connection, and I whispered fiercely, "Keep it! Please, please, please keep it!"

"But it's your grandmother's!" she sobbed.

"No, it's yours."

Sandi smiled and me all misty eyed and kissed me right on the mouth.