Where Have All the Cowboys Gone??

10.26.2007

It’s nine o’clock in the morning and the store is about to open. I have been at work for over an hour counting money and setting up cashier stations. Ace of Base’s song, All That She Wants plays on the loudspeakers. Again. Spoiler alert: all that she wants, is another baby. Welcome to a day in retail.

“I’m sorry we don’t have much to do,” my manager says to me. “Things will pick up later today.” I ask him if it's okay for me to write while I wait. He thinks about it a second, “I don’t think the head manager would like that.” Other associates are talking to one another, bouncing balls, wandering round aimlessly--but it is my writing that would reflect badly on the company.

I am apparently to just stand. Doing nothing. Even when there are no customers in the store.

“Try to look friendly,” he tells me.

It is at this point that I realize that I don’t want to do retail. If I had any doubts about the validity of applying to masters programs for next year, these doubts are now assuaged.

He calls another manager. “Hey, why don't you bring those shirts forward. I’m going to get Adelaide to fold them. Just thought, you know, that I’d give her something to do.”

I decide that I will start working on my applications tonight.

I am the only cashier on duty, which means no ten minute breaks. While these are legally mandated, it doesn’t really bother me. I would most likely be told to do nothing there as well. “Yeah, just sit there. Try not to drool.”

It is surprisingly hard to not drool, I’ve found. Especially when you’re hungry. But every time I take out my lunch, I get made fun of. It’s hard to take spinach and basmati rice into the public without laughed at as a hippy.

Which is surprising, since Portland is one of the most hippy friendly cities in the country. But in the twenty minutes it takes me to drive from inner Portland to outer Portland, there is a serious shift in demographics. Whereas every barista and bag boy in downtown has bachelors degrees, on my job I am the only one.

A fact that doesn’t seem to be helping me much. “Uh, Jennifer, line one. Jennifer, uh, dammit!” In case you’re wondering, cursing over the loud speaker is never a good thing. Nor is failing to hang up the phone so that the entire store hears you ring up the next customer. I didn’t think it was a big deal until the next day when one of my coworkers said to me, “Did you hear that someone didn’t put the phone down after a page? We were all talking about it this morning. Its hilarious.” Yeah, wow, I say, that person must be really incompetent.

In truth, it's not the incompetence that messes me up so much as the forgetfulness. Take today, for example. Our apartment is really cold in the morning so when my alarm goes off, I jump out of bed and put my clothes and jacket on immediately. I drove to work and parked my car only to realize: I’m not wearing a bra. Worse than that, I am wearing a pretty thin shirt and no bra. I wear my jacket into the store, but its down filled so if I wear it all day I will most likely asphyxiate. And people will wonder, why is that girl wearing a jacket if she is sweating so heavily? It’s against company policy anyways, to wear coats on shift.

I run through the women’s apparel section looking for a sports bra, a thicker shirt, any kind of nipple hiding device. I finally settle on a cami, but, as I am the only cashier, I can’t buy it until the other girl gets to work at three. So, I did what any other sane human being would do in this situation--I taped down my breasts. With packing tape. Which is really not so bad, at least the taping part. It’s the removal of the tape process that’s hard. Suffice to say I have only one and a half nipples now.

No one seemed to notice my improvised bra. At least no one that could potentially fire me. I was worried because the population of outer Portland is pretty conservative, a fact that I continually forget. Take gender issues. A young guy brought a balance ball to the checkout. On the packaging was a picture of a woman mid crunch. He said that none of the balls had men on the box. I told him that her pink sports bra wouldn't really look good on him.

“Really?” he responded. “I think the pink might bring out my eyes. Anyhow, I guess they’re just not marketing these thing towards men.”

“Unless you’re a cross dresser,” I say. He looks at me and then moves back a bit. “Or transgendered,” I continue.

He's looking very uncomfortable and I’m beginning to flounder. “You know f-m or m-f. I’ve forgotten. Anyways...” I trail off, deeming that talking is no longer the best option.

I hand him his receipt and he says, “Well, this was quite the gender bender conversation.” I tell him I’m glad we had this talk.

Luckily, none of my coworkers heard me. They already think I’m weird here. I was talking to another cashier when Brittany Spears’ song, Not Yet a Woman, came on over the loud speakers. “If I never hear this song again,” I tell her, “I will be happy.”

She nods enthusiastically. “Yeah, I hate Brittany Spears. Christina Aguilera is sooo much better.” Of course, I mumble, that’s exactly what I meant.

I can’t blame her for liking these songs. I’ve heard them hundreds of times and they’re beginning to sink into my psyche. Our company has a playlist for their stores and it repeats all day. I find myself spontaneously singing lyrics I don’t even like. "Meet Virginia, I cant wait to, meet Virginia, yeah yeah."

This seems to be a dangerous situation. According to an article in the BBC, “Middle-of-the-road pop tunes - a category into which most festive songs fall - were reputedly played by the US military to break the fighting spirit of the Viet Cong. The FBI chose Nancy Sinatra's back catalogue when trying to end the Waco siege in 1994.” At my store, it seems they are not only trying to break our spirits, but also to induce psychosis. Which leads me to one questions: Where Have All the Cowboys Gone?