Here we are performing our big hit at the MAMBA party. We were so popular, the cops showed up to cheer us on, and then promptly shut us down. Apparently making noise at 8:20 pm on a saturday night isn't appreciated in this well-to-do neighborhood.
Monday, October 22, 2007
Saturday, October 20, 2007
Brothers in Arms
We are a tight crew at the shop, I’ll tell you. We are forever united in our quest for customer service excellence, we stand together as one striving to improve the bottom line, and we are all in the same boat, sailing through the stormy waters of the weekends, Super Sales, and Christmas Eve, and we all hate each others guts.
Ok, that may be a bit harsh, hate is such a strong word, but it is totally true. But the contempt we harbor for each other derives not necessarily from personality clashes, but from the fact that we are a miserable bunch of low achievers with English degrees and credit card debt, stuck in the same dark tunnel with no light at the end, and there’s someone up front with two kids who wants a good deal on bikes and accessories for the whole family and needs someone to help them.
There are many scenarios that may unfold at this point, and what happens next depends on the type of customer you’re dealing with.
The Go Getter
This type of customer knows what they want and how to get it. They mean business, and when they walk in the front door and ask the first man, woman, child, or dog they see if they work here, they don’t want to hear, “No, I don’t.” Once they make eye contact with you, you’re a deer stuck in the headlights, and you’re about to be run over.
The Dependent Aggressor
On the opposite end of the spectrum is this type of customer, who knows what they want but has absolutely no idea how to get it. They are the type of person with a large sign on their bedroom wall that reads, Pants First, Then Shoes. This type of customer slips in the front door and immediately slides into the darkest, most obscure corner of the shop and begins counting the minutes until they are greeted and asked if they need help. They may be completely out of sight, but they damn well better not be out of mind. Eventually, instead of, perhaps, walking to the front counter to ask for help, they storm out, head home, and compose a hand written letter detailing their ordeal at the shop, where they waited for six minutes and no one said hello. They usually like to add how they’ve been good customers for twenty years and over the course of those twenty years, have never once missed a single annual end-of-season blow-out sale, and have had nothing but excellent service every time they’ve been in, but after this outrage are never, ever coming back.
The Polite Nice Guy
This customer falls in the middle somewhere. They know how to find the salespeople, but hate to impose on them, and will patiently wait for help, while looking over the product they want to buy. Occasionally they’ll glance around the shop, indicating that they could use a hand, but want to make it clear it’s only when you’re ready, so no rush. They are the type of customer who, on a good day, you’d be more than happy to assist, but there are so few good days. Their laid back ways usually sets up the old retail show down, where three or four of us are standing close together, each one of us knowing full well that that customer over there obviously needs help, but are all pretending that we don’t notice that person over there who obviously needs help, until someone finally draws and shoots, but unlike the old west, he with the fastest gun loses.
And harsh as it may be, the one who gives now hates the rest of us.
Ok, that may be a bit harsh, hate is such a strong word, but it is totally true. But the contempt we harbor for each other derives not necessarily from personality clashes, but from the fact that we are a miserable bunch of low achievers with English degrees and credit card debt, stuck in the same dark tunnel with no light at the end, and there’s someone up front with two kids who wants a good deal on bikes and accessories for the whole family and needs someone to help them.
There are many scenarios that may unfold at this point, and what happens next depends on the type of customer you’re dealing with.
The Go Getter
This type of customer knows what they want and how to get it. They mean business, and when they walk in the front door and ask the first man, woman, child, or dog they see if they work here, they don’t want to hear, “No, I don’t.” Once they make eye contact with you, you’re a deer stuck in the headlights, and you’re about to be run over.
The Dependent Aggressor
On the opposite end of the spectrum is this type of customer, who knows what they want but has absolutely no idea how to get it. They are the type of person with a large sign on their bedroom wall that reads, Pants First, Then Shoes. This type of customer slips in the front door and immediately slides into the darkest, most obscure corner of the shop and begins counting the minutes until they are greeted and asked if they need help. They may be completely out of sight, but they damn well better not be out of mind. Eventually, instead of, perhaps, walking to the front counter to ask for help, they storm out, head home, and compose a hand written letter detailing their ordeal at the shop, where they waited for six minutes and no one said hello. They usually like to add how they’ve been good customers for twenty years and over the course of those twenty years, have never once missed a single annual end-of-season blow-out sale, and have had nothing but excellent service every time they’ve been in, but after this outrage are never, ever coming back.
The Polite Nice Guy
This customer falls in the middle somewhere. They know how to find the salespeople, but hate to impose on them, and will patiently wait for help, while looking over the product they want to buy. Occasionally they’ll glance around the shop, indicating that they could use a hand, but want to make it clear it’s only when you’re ready, so no rush. They are the type of customer who, on a good day, you’d be more than happy to assist, but there are so few good days. Their laid back ways usually sets up the old retail show down, where three or four of us are standing close together, each one of us knowing full well that that customer over there obviously needs help, but are all pretending that we don’t notice that person over there who obviously needs help, until someone finally draws and shoots, but unlike the old west, he with the fastest gun loses.
And harsh as it may be, the one who gives now hates the rest of us.
Saturday, October 6, 2007
Weekend Warrior
The sun is pouring its early morning rays on our sleepy little town as folks begin to wake up and plan their day of yardwork, washing the car, and gearing up for the afternoon barbeque with the neighbors. It’s Saturday morning, and for those of us who work in retail, it can only mean one thing: time to get your ass out of bed and off to work, you poor bastard.
The last time I had Saturdays off from work, cartoons were exclusively a Saturday morning thing and my teddy bear and I were watching them. The Rubik’s Cube was as new as a movie called E.T., and my parents were still together. These days, Wednesdays are my Saturdays, Tuesday night is my Friday night, and Sundays are fortunately, because I am after all the manager, still Sundays.
I've worked my share of Sundays, I’ll have you know, but after crawling my way through the barbed wire and gunk of the retail hierarchy for the past million years, I’ve earned the privilege of Sundays off, so for one day a week, I can pretend to be a normal working person with a real job and a real life. I sleep in and read the paper and take my time making breakfast. It’s extraordinarily cathartic. As far as those other things that real folks do with their Sundays, the landlord takes care of the yard, my car is too much a piece of shit to wash and you can’t polish a turd, and because I live in the poor part of town, my neighbors are too sketchy to invite over for grilling, and anyway, my George Foreman is only big enough for two.
The last time I had Saturdays off from work, cartoons were exclusively a Saturday morning thing and my teddy bear and I were watching them. The Rubik’s Cube was as new as a movie called E.T., and my parents were still together. These days, Wednesdays are my Saturdays, Tuesday night is my Friday night, and Sundays are fortunately, because I am after all the manager, still Sundays.
I've worked my share of Sundays, I’ll have you know, but after crawling my way through the barbed wire and gunk of the retail hierarchy for the past million years, I’ve earned the privilege of Sundays off, so for one day a week, I can pretend to be a normal working person with a real job and a real life. I sleep in and read the paper and take my time making breakfast. It’s extraordinarily cathartic. As far as those other things that real folks do with their Sundays, the landlord takes care of the yard, my car is too much a piece of shit to wash and you can’t polish a turd, and because I live in the poor part of town, my neighbors are too sketchy to invite over for grilling, and anyway, my George Foreman is only big enough for two.
Tuesday, October 2, 2007
Still Workin' at the Bike Store
I am a rock star, by the way. Seriously. Just because I am not in a real band, don't have any albums on the charts or even in existence, am unknown, and totally broke, I am still a bonafide rocker. I wrote this tune as therapy and play it "whenever I'm feeling down." I have a live recording of this song, played with my side project Mamband, but there is no way I'd ever let anyone hear it, because I am lousy at guitar and even worse at singing, but I am nonetheless a rock star goddammit. Here are the lyrics:
Whenever I’m feeling down
My heart falls to the ground
And I know one thing for certain
I’m not too good at hurtin’
I still remained perplexed
About what to do next
But I know one thing for sure
Still workin’ at the Bike Store
Well at least I can proudly say
That I’ve lived every day
As if it were my last
And I’m having a blast
‘Bout my troubles I can say
Left alone they’ll go away
But one thing I can’t ignore
Still workin’ at the Bike Store
All the grown up things I should do
Like save a dollar or two
Are currently on hold
And I’m getting old
Maybe this will be the year
I’ll pursue a new career
But until I open that door
Still workin’ at the Bike Store
Got a smile and an English degree
Not much else going for me
Drive around in a beat up car
They know my name at the bar
People say you can do anything
Put your mind to it, just take a swing
But until I go on tour
Still workin’ at the Bike Store
Whenever I’m feeling down
My heart falls to the ground
And I know one thing for certain
I’m not too good at hurtin’
I still remained perplexed
About what to do next
But I know one thing for sure
Still workin’ at the Bike Store
Well at least I can proudly say
That I’ve lived every day
As if it were my last
And I’m having a blast
‘Bout my troubles I can say
Left alone they’ll go away
But one thing I can’t ignore
Still workin’ at the Bike Store
All the grown up things I should do
Like save a dollar or two
Are currently on hold
And I’m getting old
Maybe this will be the year
I’ll pursue a new career
But until I open that door
Still workin’ at the Bike Store
Got a smile and an English degree
Not much else going for me
Drive around in a beat up car
They know my name at the bar
People say you can do anything
Put your mind to it, just take a swing
But until I go on tour
Still workin’ at the Bike Store
You don't need a stage in front of 10,000 screaming fans or even a decent rehearsal space to be a rock star. It's all in your heart, dude. As you can see, the basement of the shop provides a cool, industrial type setting, and we can be as loud as we like.
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