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"But that was 12.99 back on the shelf! I don't know why it's 59.99 up here! Man, I hate this store! I'm taking my business to WalMart!"- a moronic customer who comes to Target on a weekly basis
"Hey *looks at my name tag* Kimberly...how old are you? 18? Yeahhhh...soo..uh....you think I could you know...get yo' number shoudy?"-an example of one of the many crappy guys who come into the store
"Que? No me digas! Cincuenta dolares por un televisor? Uf! No, Pancho, no dulces hoy para ti...Arriba! Los Americanos son muy estupidos, pero la tendadora es muy caliente..."- one of the many random spanish-only speaking customers, who assume that I can't figure out what they're saying
I HATE MY JOB.
This place is devoted to the common highschool/college student who is forced to work a lame/pathetic job on their road to eventual greatness/mediocrity. Read on, and revel in the sadness of it all.
Chapter One:July 1999-September 1999
I hate my job. As walk in the door of this sick, sad edifice I think about how I really should have listened to the disgruntled employees that warned me away from Goody�s when I turned in my application. I only began to realize the severity of my situation when one of the assistant managers whispered to me,� My God! Get out while you still can!�. Frightened but confident, I squared my shoulders with plucky determination and decided to look my cleanest, smell my best, and be the perkiest darn salesgirl that Goody�s has ever known. My pluck faded within an hour of the �intense� training program that consists of three hours of �quality training videos� containing the rules and guidelines of the company illustrated through �fun skits� and other dramatic presentations. These �fun skits� portrayed happy, smiling employees doing various musical numbers and spouting off assorted catch phrases to portray the exciting atmosphere that I was about to join. It was all quite depressing. After three hours of useless drivel, I was bored, tired and beginning to hate myself when my manager popped in made me sign some forms. I was now a proud but extremely sickened member of the work force. As my manager explained the hours that I would be working, I felt my eyes glaze over as I fell into a mildly comatose state. I awoke when she mentioned that we might �occasionally have to work a few minutes more after the store closes, but we should always leave before midnight.� With these words I hurried past the store floor to behind the cash register. After roughly fifteen minutes of examining the machine and a lot of head scratching, they announced to me that my cashier training was over and now I could go and fold clothes. Whoopee.
I was informed that my primary department would be the Ready to Wear section of the store; this consists of the underwear, ladies dresses, and jewelry departments. I throw myself into my work, day after day, stacking panties only for them to be thrown about by careless and disgusting customers. One woman actually walked over to the underwear tables, looked at me, picked up a stack of neatly folded panties, and tossed them to the ground at her feet. I stared in horror as she turned on her heel and left, and I began to gingerly pick up my destroyed handiwork. After a month of watching morbidly obese women try on and occasionally purchase animal print thongs, listening to a sick mix of Michael Bolton and Phil Collins blasted over Goody�s Radio 109.5, consistently working past midnight, and rarely being recognized by the management, I began to tire of Goody�s. They didn�t even remember to give me a name tag. I was forced to make my own with some stickers and a drying pen that I found in the stockroom. To management I was just another name on the payroll, it didn�t matter if I couldn�t do something, I would have to do it anyway. For example, it is a common belief among managers that since the Ready to Wear department is the smallest, whoever is working that department should be able to cover any other department in the store. I have no problem with this logic, and I would gladly clean up both RTW and one other department. However, I have now learned that once people realize that you can do something well, they believe that you are invincible. One day I was told to cover RTW, the Mens, Kid�s, and Misses departments all at the same time. I wanted to scream, but I did my job (and everyone else�s) with a smile.
Of course, not everything is terrible about this place. With the help of my fellow employees, I learned many new ways to fight the boredom, and hide from the customers. On slow days I can watch Alladin in the Kid�s department with my friend Seth and sing the lyrics to the various songs as loudly as possible. When I feel frustrated I can just break a few hangers or throw some underwear at the guy in the Shoe department. My fellow staff member, Stephanie, often helps me discover new ways to alienate the public. For example, if a customer approaches me with an item and they do not know the price of that item, I merely tell them that Goody�s does not sell that item. I also stopped wearing my shoddily made name tag because customers feel insecure about bothering someone without a name tag, so I always finished my department on time. Stephanie and I will also dance for the security cameras, hide underneath the panty tables and make other attempts to amuse ourselves in this time of great boredom and sorrow.
Those fond memories are now a part of my past as I calmly walk down the corridor to turn in my two weeks notice. I try to control my obvious glee as I stuff my hand written note into the folder and sprint away from the room. I am one of the last of my friends to leave, and I can�t look back with any regrets. I start now on my search for a new job, a better place where I can be happy and free, a place where the management knows my name, a place where I�m proud to work, but most of all, a place that pays over $6.50 an hour.
Chapter Two: December 1999-January 2001
I did eventually find a higher paying job, but the customers were considerably dirtier. Coming soon, "The Target Year"...
Customers Suck
Infinity