My first job during high school was working at a Hallmark store. It has served as a source of inspiration for some of my writing. Since one of these stories was recently rejected, I’ll share it on this post.
But I’m thinking some good might still come out of that job:
I might be able to redeem myself with my greeting card mentors….
Of Mentors and Mugs
Long before I realized that earning minimum wage was not a glamorous ambition, I dove into a string of pre-college jobs that I hoped would garner me the funds to fulfill all of my teenage material needs: movies at the mall, a black Madonna style skirt my parents would not buy, and a third piercing in my left ear. My age precluded me from the alluring thrill of being a waitress, so I opted for becoming a card store clerk, a job requiring only an application and a willingness to work for about four dollars an hour.
I was on the bottom of the heap as far as employees went in the store. The twenty-something higher ups had been in the card business for much longer than me. Shelly, a vision of the eighties with Tawny Kitaen hair who often disappeared for half an hour intervals right when the early evening rush began, gave me my first lesson on the credit card machine. And then there was Mandy. She wore fitted sweater dresses and high heals; some distant relationship to the owner got her preferential treatment, which meant she never had to dust the ceramic mugs and she could create the seasonal displays in the front window. There were other women, mostly well coiffed forty something divorcees, who worked in the pharmacy or general toiletries area, but since my duties were primarily in the card section, Shelly and Mandy became my mentors in the working world.
During my first days in the card business, I trailed behind my teachers, observing their actions, learning the trade, and marveling in who they were as women. Soon, my fifteen-year-old awkward self began to yearn for the ideal life that these two women seemed to possess. How did Shelly get her hair to those proportions? Would I ever look the way Mandy did in a sweater dress? And then there was a constant stream of boyfriends, showing up in their IROCs night after night right before closing; their cars pulling in behind my father’s Honda. Would I ever receive this attention?
My mentors were also business-minded. Shelly told me never to comment on the selections people made and always, always take off the price tags before wrapping the Precious Moments figurines. I stumbled through my first few weeks, often ringing up wrong prices, having to rewrap gifts because I forgot to remove a tag or holding back my laughter when someone asked me if the gemstone necklaces in the front rotating display case were real, but Shelly would give me a smile and helped me to get back on track. Sometimes she would even offer me some sage life advice, such as never to date a policeman because they would often have to work weekend nights.
Mandy, on the other hand, had an aloofness that added to her mystique. Her dark straight hair set her apart as being much more serious, and she taught me with stern reprimands.
Be sure to count all of the cards and match them up with the correct number of envelopes, she would say, and don’t try to cheat by putting different colored envelopes behind them.
My back became permanently crooked as I made my way down the long rows of slotted displays, creating neat stacks of cards with coordinating envelopes. If Mandy was feeling particularly sadistic, she would assign me the dreaded mug wall. Mandy instructed me on the weekly cleaning process which involved removing all of the display mugs and using glass cleaner on the layers of dust that had accumulated on the glass shelves since the previous week. I become suspicious of Mandy’s tutoring, as my paper towels were black and my fingers were gray when I placed the last mug back up on the shelf at the end of the night. A few months later, I would discover that the usual technique for cleaning the shelves was to use a feather duster, swooshing it around the mugs that stayed on the shelves.
But soon, through Mandy and Shelly’s lessons, I became the queen of the cash register, ringing up the sympathy cards that people tossed on my counter, along with the occasional #1 Teacher mug or box of Russell Stover candies. Occasionally, someone would order a balloon bouquet. Creating a bouquet allowed the clerk to go to the back room which brought a chance to sneak a soda and to get away from the front of the store. Lingering was a requirement of balloon creativity. Needless to say, Shelly was always first to handle this job and, only in her absence, was I even considered for the task.
When the store was quiet, I would often eavesdrop on my mentors’ conversations, soaking up the news on who was seeing who, what the great places were to go at night and the secrets of life after high school. My interest in my mentors’ lives grew, along with my knowledge of gift wrapping techniques and proper change handling etiquette.
After a few months on the job, I was unexpectedly asked to work down in the trenches of the connected pharmacy. The pharmacy was the place where I went to get change, talk to the boss, or buy a soda. Now it would be the place where I would have to ring up tampons, bed pans and condoms.
I felt unprepared for my new position in the card/pharmacy store food chain and, as Mandy led me around the corner of the register to teach me how to operate the Lottery machine, I felt shear panic. Mandy started running through the different procedures and processes I would need to know. In additional to gambling, I learned about the variety of cigarettes that lined the case above my head. And, as she wrapped up her presentation, Mandy looked me in the eye and gave me my final directive: Don’t screw up.
But I did. I wanted to return to the world of crystal dogs, crocheted calendars, and bags of Brach’s hard candy; and I wanted to hang out with my mentors up in the card store. My misery must have been apparent, but my boss said I was doing well, so he told me he would keep me in the pharmacy most of the time.
With those words, I knew my days were numbered. But it took a customer having a breakdown in front of me over the fact that we did not have her brand of menthols in stock and a man spitting on the counter because I misheard his Lottery ticket numbers, for me to finally say goodbye to the store. And to Shelly and Mandy.
I was not sad to leave my job, but I was sad to leave my mentors. And, when I went home for a visit after college, I could not help but drive by the store. I wanted to go in. I had heard they were still there. I knew they would not recognize me. I was just another teenager who had wandered across their path. But I remembered them. Not because of their great tutelage, but because, even with my now confident self and degree, I still wanted to know their secrets.
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