Uptown Top Ranking
The whine of the alarm system begins immediately as the door swings open, and I desperately shove my Medeco into the keyhole on the locked gate and twist while I hauling on the vertical security bolts holding the gate in place. I manage to loosen the bolts just in time to run behind the counter and enter my disarm code before the alarm went off. Turning back to face the outside door with summer sweat pouring down my face, I see Gale Henderson's wizened face pulling open the door to Bank Street.
I check the time: 8:50.
"Sorry Mrs. Henderson, we're not open yet."
"Oh, but the door was open, I thought..."
"I'm sorry, I don't have the registers set up or anything yet. I just got here."
She's nonplussed by the fact that I exist and have needs, but I can tell from the paper beaver bag in her hand she's here to return one of our leather bags, and I'm not eager to process a refund. I walk her back out of the store taking care to lock the door behind her so I can get the ten minutes to myself I wanted.
I take a moment to collect myself, sneak out the back door, and over to the Starbucks before I have to face Mrs. Henderson again.
Dave, the keyholder there, gives me the two-fingers-to-his-eyes-two-fingers-to-my-direction of recognition, and has a tall blonde on the bar with enough room for cream, just the way I like, before I have time to say hello.
Wednesday in the Glebe wasn't so bad after all.
After shooting the shit with Dave, we agree that business is terrible because of the construction. Bank had been ripped up for weeks now, as part of Ottawa's cycle of water main replacement. I tell Dave I finished last Wednesday $400 in the red. We have a laugh at my misfortune, remind him I make less than ten bucks an hour and couldn't care less. He and I share another laugh, before I head back out the side door and in the back, putting my coffee on the back desk before reaching up to flip on the in-store music station.
The music for all Roots stores comes as a central download from head office. It is curated and organized by a man known only as DJ Davin. His entire mandate seemed to be to find whatever songs he could with the word "Roots" in them, and add them to the in-store playlist, which included a lot of reggae, soul, and the occasional 'original Roots Radio recording' about how great our sweats were. Davin would occasionally sneak in a Canadian hip-hop act, but mostly our thrills came from when "Groove is in the Heart" would come on in the early evenings.
As Uptown Top Ranking began its chorus, the clock rolled around to 9:00 and it was time to open. Waking the cash register from sleep, I logged in with my staff number, counted out the float, and heard the standard issue laser printer start spitting out the daily literature. A few markdowns were coming up, a collection was being featured in The Globe and Mail, and we were still supposed to have that damn poster of Zach Galifinakas wearing our damn bag up.
Once the float is counted, it's only a minute before Gale shows up again. I say hello, trying my best not to wince, and she pulls out a Lauren bag in purple patent leather, with the overwhelming floral scent, which meant it had been purchased downtown at our location that was directly beside a Lush. It was nauseating.
"It stinks," she says. "I can't stand it."
Me neither.
"Oh, that's too bad," I say, using my customer service voice, trying not to think about the sales impact. "Did you want to exchange or--"
"Refund."
"Of course."
Once I've refunded her Visa, she leaves me alone in the store, where I will be all day until closing. I pull out my copy of "A Farewell To Arms" and position myself against a folding table.
With the construction running outside for the next eight weeks, head office agreed to keep the store open to avoid a breach of contract with the condominium developers upstairs who actually owned the building. The reality on the ground was that I would likely make a maximum of three sales today before closing time, and because of Mrs. Henderson's return, I'd likely end up in the red for the day. For $9.50 an hour, I wasn't bringing my strongest work ethic.
In actuality, I had no fucks to give.
Later on in the morning, I absentmindedly sing along to "Don't Stop Believing" as I count through our leather department for our opening report which I technically should have done at 9:30.
Front display– 35.
Drawers – 65.
Mannequins – 3.
Back – 89.
Returns – 1.
Feelings of soul leaving body – 1.
Completely under-stimulated, I throw the back in 5 minutes sign up on the door, lock up so I can have my lunch in peace.
Christ, I had two bachelors degrees, tens of thousands of dollars in student debt, and all I had to show for it was the $75 bucks I'd make today staring off into space. Ruminating on this, I bit into an errant peanut the wrong way, sending it exploding into my airway.
I wheeze.
I choke.
I cough. The peanut comes up, and I wince. For $9.50 an hour I just about choked to death in a stock room full of sweatpants. For fuck's sake.
7:00 rolls around and I've seen exactly three people, sold one pair of socks, and finished "A Farewell To Arms" which did nothing to ease my feelings of hopelessness about the day.
Jackhammers had pounded the sidewalk, excavation had begun further up the block.
Front display– 35.
Drawers – 65.
Mannequins – 3.
Back – 89.
Returns – 1.
I enter the count on the cash register, and do the daily shutdown and settlement of the Interac machine. Various rolls of paper spit out of various printers, I enter the unchanged float, and see the last line of the daily report tell me my total sales were $368 in the red. Fucking hell.
I head to the back as "Be Thankful" by One Blood finishes its psychedelic reggae disco breakdown.
As I walk away from the store, the streetlights begin to click on. The last few shops are closing up as I head north towards Frank Street, towards home, my wife, and our bed. The cool night air touches my face like she does.
The $75 I made today would pay off our phone and internet bills.
Yeah, Wednesday in the Glebe wasn't so bad after all.