Unretirement, the corporate machine, & a stream of $1 bills

Overused Movie Quote #27

Just when I thought I was out they pull me back in!

What movie is that from? I wanna say “Godfather Part III” but A) I’ve only seen it once and B) I find it hard to believe such a horrible movie would create such memorable and often repeated quote. I’m telling you, if only I put some research into my writing I might actually be good at this thing.

Speaking of which…I’m surprise how many people have contacted me regarding my announcement of semi-retirement. I had no idea that many people visited my site (gonna hafta find a new host because its web tracking statistics are way off–I must be getting dozens of hits). As I’ve stated many times, I never wrote for an audience. Writing is/was something that I regularly do for entertainment purposes (my entertainment–not yours). I did it for me because I enjoyed doing it. I started posting stuff online because I had stuff to post (that and for some reason I thought it would get me chiks). Maybe I do need to consider my audience because there are folks out there who actually care what I have to write.

Either that or the travesties in my life make people feel better about their own existence (wow, I’ve become dark during time off).

In any case, looks like I’m gonna hafta pull a Favre and unretired. I can’t promise the twice-a-week entries I liked to do in my prime–but there’s no excuse for me not to post something once a week (or two). Unfortunately I was ambitious (or foolish) enough to try a complicated, fluid site. Uploading one iRANT consists of adding/changing five files–way too much effort for a man who has nothing to do in his life. That being said, the people have spoken an if anything, I’m a man of the people (or at least a person who caves to mass pressure). So I guess it’s time I post something…no matter how lame or disinteresting (what–it’s a word) it might be.

Before I tell the next tale, I need to give a little backstory. As I proudly proclaimed in the past I am a burden to society–a parasite who leeches off the system without contributing anything to the good of society (no, I’m not an illegal immigrant). For the past year and a half I’ve been on unemployment.

That’s not to say I don’t have a job. A couple months ago I took a job at an undisclosed retail store (we’ll call it URS). It’s a crappy job…crappy doesn’t even begin to describe it. The job is humiliating, embarrassing, damaging to my self-esteem–and this is coming from a guy with little pride. I’m making a tad bit above minimum wage. I hafta dress like a tool when I go to work. I even hafta wear a name tag for cripes’ sake. Look at how far my life has toppled over the past year and a half. I had a job with my own office, a company cell phone, a company credit card, and a company car (which wasn’t for my own personal use, as my boss had to consistently remind me). I was given a great deal of responsibility and little adult supervision. And now…now…now I gotta stock diapers and ask for permission to go to the bathroom. It’s degrading to have fallen this far.

The reason whore myself like this is the same reason anyone whores themselves–money. I’m still collecting unemployment from my previous position at the television station. I work at URS for a little extra spending cash. The job is close to my house (four minute walk). It’s easy to do, stress-free, and I know when I go home at night I completely leave work behind me. I work a couple days a week, and I make so little money that I’m still able to collect unemployment from the state. It works out well for everyone involved (well, maybe not the taxpayers).

Now that the exposition is done (some 600 words later), let’s get to the story which you all came here to read. URS is a large, nation-wide chain. If I told you the name of it you probably heard of it (unless you live in Fresno–’cause they got nothing out there except a Wal-Mart and bovine fertility clinic). Working at URS could be considered an interesting social experiment. You know how ants all work in unison to build those farms or eat an old raisin you dropped on the floor? That’s kinda what working at URS is like–folks just do what they’re told without questioning why or trying to determine its purpose. No one in the store has any power. Not the lowly cashiers (me) or the lofty managers. URS employs are all good at doing one thing–whatever it is they’re told to do.

Example. About a month ago the manager gave me a stack of shelf tags. She told me that some of the tags were for new items, some of the tags were for existing items, and the majority of the tags were for products my store didn’t even carry. My assignment was to put out the tags for new items, replace the tags for existing items, and chuck the tags for stuff we didn’t carry.

After 30 minutes on the job I came to the conclusion that the majority of the tags were replacing existing tags. What made this task feel hopelessly irrelevant was the similarity–identicalness–of the replacement tags. They were exactly the same thing. Same barcode. Same item number. Same UPC. Same. Exact. Tag.

I brought this fact to my manger’s attention and asked her if she still wanted me to replace the older tags. She looked at the two tags and concurred they were identical. I offered my assistance somewhere else–doing something more productive–but she declined. “Keep replacing the tags,” she told me.

“But why,” I asked. This was not a statement of defiance, but rather an inquiry behind the task I was assigned.

“I don’t know why. But they want us to do it, so just do it.” ‘They’ were the corporate bigwigs–the suits who run URS from some far off place and never set foot in the stores they manage.

And that’s exactly how URS is run. The bosses–magical, unseen mystical creatures–make their decisions and pass ’em down to the stores. The managers at the stores tell the clerks and the clerks do as their told. Inventory isn’t determined by the store manager. End caps, layouts, and even “manager’s specials” are all decided upon by someone else. They tell us to put peanuts closer to the cash registers. They tell us what time we gotta take out the trash. They even turn off all the lights automatically at a time they decided no one should be in the store. It’s a machine, I tellya.

Which brings me to the story I set out to tell (finally!). When I went into work Saturday, I was told we were out of five and ten dollar bills. “We only have twenties and hundreds,” the manager told me. I was instructed to give all customers Washingtons when counting out change. Seemed ludicrous to me to count out $18 in ones if someone bought a pack of gum using a twenty, so I made a suggestion.

“If we only have big bills left, why don’t we run across the street to the bank and swap it out for some fives?”

The manager looked confused by the suggestion. I think the idea was registering in her head, but she was unsure what to do with the information. I swear her face was as blank as a TV screen during a power failure. She stuttered a bit; struggled searching for a response. Luckily for her a manager was needed elsewhere so she left without formally answering my question.

A few hours later I made the same suggestion to another manager. I like this manager because he’s humbler than most and is very open about his affection for malt liquor. “I get what you’re saying,” he said to me, “and that seems like a good idea. I don’t see why we don’t do it. But I’m not paid to make those decisions.”

Those decisions? You’re the manager for cripes’ sake! You’re the one theoretically in charge!

His candor is one of the reasons I like the guy, but it’s what he didn’t say the resonated with me. At URS we’re taught to do what we’re told. Managers are taught to follow procedures set forth in the Official URS Manager’s Handbook. They don’t make decisions. They don’t solve problems. They do what their told. Based on his reply and the befuddlement of the earlier manager, I reached the conclusion that they didn’t know what to do because it wasn’t in the Official URS Manager’s Handbook. Neither one of them was comfortable making a decision that wasn’t determined by store policy. Bureaucracy at its best.

I spent the rest of my shift counting out change in $1 increments. The majority of customers were extremely unhappy with this (with the lone exception being a group of guys heading out to a strip club). It became even more burdensome when customers wanted to get cash back on their ATM purchases (imagine being handed 40 bucks in dollar bills). This situation also created more work for the managers because for some unforeseen reason I kept running out of $1 bills and needed change every half hour. I’m just glad I had a day shift because when I left I heard one of the managers say they were running out of $1 bills. I’d hate to hand out $60 cash back in quarters.