Greenwood Thrift Store
(a.k.a. The Green)
a lay of the land.
It's
big: One of the largest and most organized thrift stores I've encountered in my semi-long lifetime of eighteen years. You walk in, and there's multiple cashiers waiting to charge you for whatever gems you've found within our 42 aisles. The aisles are parted into two sides, each made up of 21 aisles, on either side of the store (horizontal with the front of the building). The one at the front is A side, which consists of men's and women's everything, and the one behind it is B side, which is kids, linens, misc, and books. There's different things on different walls: purses and baby clothes, which are organized in color, baskets, stuffed animals, movies, accessories, ect.
It's popular: Never is there a slow day at the Green. Thursday through Sunday is the worst. I'm not sure about Mondays or Saturdays, because those are my days off. Which by the way are the only days that people that work there can shop. We can't even go in before we have to clock in. I for one thing that's just a load of barnacles. I have nightmares about my customers! I've noticed a theme in the Amish women. They seem so sweet, but for some reason, they always leave messes! Like, a trail of skirts and blouses follow them as they weave through the linens. It's infuriating and yes, semi-prejudice, but it's an observation. There's the customers that come in EVERY DAY, the ones whose names I know and know my name, the ones who you worry about if they miss a day, the ones who are either hoarders or resell the shit for dollars more. Whatever the case, there's a handful of faces we see on a daily basis. Then there's my least favorite- the lingerers. The ones who ignore the "WE'RE CLOSED!" announcements at the end of the day and continue to la-de-lah through the aisles. I mean, it's rediculous. Go home, so we can, damn. OH, and I forgot the Mirror Customers. The ones who don't feel like waiting in line for a fitting room, park their packed carts in front of one of the mirrors in the aisleways (WHY THERE ARE MIRRORS THERE, I DO NOT KNOW) and try things on there. And when they don't like it, they just decide it's okay to hang it up right there on the mirror because it's "our job" to put it away- that is, if they're feeling generous. Usually you can find the clothes inside out and shoved behind them.
It's so loud: music from the 70s and 80s is constantly looping from speakers scattered on the ceiling playing a repetitive radio station (seriously, I suffered an Aerosmith overdose.), combined with the squeal of hangers against metal racks, the screams of tantrum-throwing toddlers, blabberings and arguings of all ethniticies, and the occasional shatter of glass from the misc. aisles that can be heard from any corner of the store.
The working condition is mostly
aggrivating: picking up silky sheets after they slide off their duck hangers when customers ravage the linen section. Being expected to get a shit ton of work done in an unreasonable amount of time. Those one workers who thrive from creating rumors, like some sort of attempt to relive those awful but "glory days" of high school, despite the fact their in their 30s and up. Managers throwing dish rags at your face because you missed it during the night's walk through inspection. Never being praised for your good work, only scolded for the tiny things, which most likely you didn't even do. And it's so hot in there, for which I have no explanation.
For me, it also happens to be one of the most convienant jobs I've had and probably ever will, because the building itself is located directly behind my backyard. Literally. I open the back door, hop the fence, and round the corner of the store, and there I am at the entrance. We clock in at two, so I roll out of bed around 1:48. It's nice, I won't lie.
Now why am I telling you all about my job? Are you wondering,
how can a blog following the daily happenings of a thrift store be even semi entertaining? Maybe you won't like it. Maybe it's a "you have to work there to understand" sort of thing, no matter what approach I take on it. But during the mere two months I've been an employee there, a whirlwind of crazy, hilarious, and dramatic events have occured, events I just can't
not document. So why not document it on the world wide web for everyone to read? And I don't know of another blog about a thrift store employee's adventures, so I get an A+ on originality and don't have to worry about competition. And trust me, there will never be a dull entry.
the workers.
There are five branches of work at the Green that will apply to this blog.
- The managers: there's six of them, unless I'm forgetting someone.
- The cashiers.
- The production crew, who puts stuff from the back out onto the racks and shelves.
- The floor crew, which is what I'm a part of. Behind our backs we're called the floor bitches, apparently.
- And then the material handlers, who price all the misc stuff and whatnot, I'm not entirely sure. They're not super important to the blog, but I added them to show we're only second to last at the bottom of the food chain.
the floor bitches.
If the Green was high school, we'd be the motely crew smoking on the front steps.
There's about ten or so of us, but I'll only mention the ones who will be mentioned more than the others would be.
First and foremost, there's
- Samantha, a.k.a. me. I have long black hair, purple rectangle glasses, and an appreciation for what my coworkers refer to as "ugly grandma sweaters". Like today, I saw a black and gold sweater with roses stitched in it that I loved and someone told me it looked like something Blanche from Golden Girls would wear on a date xD
- Heather- out of us four, she's been at the Green the longest. A year next month. She's small, bird-boned, has red hair, and was pretty much the first friend I made at the Gren. Until I met
- Lacy- Long pretty brown hair, germ-a-phob, and is always stuck on B side for some reason. And after Lacy came the second-newest floor crew member,
- Maddie- short, pretty black girl who's been at the Green for about a month.
Together, we patrol the aisles of the giant thrift store, discovering God freaking knows what around every corner. You think I'm being dramatic, don't you? Oh, you shall see.
Let me rewind things, and go back to the beginning. Hell, even before the interview I had to get the job. (This whole blog won't be just about me, I promise. But I have a story, and dammit, it will be told!)
Weeks prior to the call from the boss I recieved asking me to come in for an "interview", (details will be spared) I was planning on moving. I no longer had anything going for me in this town except bad memories, and right before I made the decision final, I got the call.
I had applied nonchalantly one day while shopping, filling my cart with Bill Cosby-worthy sweaters and old dog-earred books, but wasn't actually
expecting the job. I thought it was some weird twist in fate, something keeping me in this town, as if something good would happen if I stayed.
I went in at the time they told me to, and the main owner didn't even ask me any questions. He just told me I'd be a part of the night crew and I filled out a stack of papers.This tall dude with a black baseball hat and a ginger billy goat beard came out of nowhere and held out his hand, which was mostly hidden by a fingerless glove. I LOATHE shaking hands, so I just eyeballed him weird.
"Hi," I said, already looking back down at my paperwork. Rude, I know, but I think offering someone your hand after you'd just gotten done working in who knows what sort of conditions is rude. My personal opinion. Anyways, he kept talking to me. Introduced himself as Carter.
"Joining the Valley Thrift team?" he asked.
"Uhm. Yes."
"What will be doing?"
"I don't know yet. Picking shit up off the floor?"
He laughed too loud. I forced a polite smile, signatured the last of my papers, and took it to the boss. I was then given a pair of free scrubs because that's the required uniform for the leser female employees (aka non-managers), sent home, and told that my first day would be that following Sunday, two days later.
That Sunday, I got my schedule, which is as follows:
Sunday: 10 to 6
Monday: Off
Tuesday through Friday: 2 to close (approximately 8:30)
Saturday: Off
And so began my days at the Green.
I liked it fairly enough in the beginning. They trained me on the register within a small period of times- like, fifteen minutes- and then I was paired up with Heather, and we were assigned aisles to pick up and size and whatnot. We were instantly friends, as it was when I worked with Lacy days later.
the origins of CC.
About a week after I started, that Carter guy HIT ON ME .__.
At first I was just being modest. When he asked "You definetly have a boyfriend, don't you?" I thought it was just a sad attempt at small talk, so I ignored it. I, and I regret it now, told him "Nooo, why?"
"What? You're not in a relationship at all?"
"Uhm, no."
"That doesn't make any sense to me. You're a very attractive girl."
I erred and uhhmed my way out of the conversation and walked away.
Later that day, he beckoned me toward this ladder he was standing on. I looked around, making sure I
was the one being beckoned, and hesitantly approached him, eyebrow arched. He held out a fist and said "here", so instinctivly I held out my palm. He dropped a tiny gold bolt of sorts into it and looked away. I assumed that was my cue to leave. I did so, and turned the thing in between my thumb and middle finger. It took me a while to realize the black markings on it were numbers. His cell phone.
I slid it in my pocket, laughing to myself about it. Surely he'd get the hint when I didn't call, and then leave it alone.
Oh, how vain of me to think such a thing.
When I got home that night, friends of mine were waiting on me. I told them about the guy, and one of them came up with the nickname Creepy Carter, and so the nickname CC was born, which is an important name in this blog. You will hear it alot- to my dismay, and to your entertainment.
The next day at work, he came up to me and sheepishly said "You didn't call."
I felt so bad, dude! I know I shouldn't have, but guys never give me their numbers, or even hit on me for that matter. We had the same break that day, and he kept attempting at small talk, and eventually, I gave him my number.
STUPID, STUPID, STUPID SAMANTHA.
I had a plan. He would call, I would answer, I would make it perfectly clear that we were ONLY CO-WORKERS, nothing more. Not even friends, really.
That night, he called multiple times. I was busy with company. The following morning, I woke up to multiple missed calls and two voicemails. TWO. VOICEMAILS. What the fuck, right?
At work he'd ask why I didn't answer, and I would always make up some excuse.
One day, while I was working in men's shirts, he slyly crept up on me and invited me, if I wasn't busy on Friday, to go night fishing with him and his dad. 0.0 I stammered something and ran away to Lacy for protection.
"DON'T DO IT," Lacy demanded, as if I'd actually consider it. Night fishing? If that's not a rape/death sentence, I don't know what is. "Because then I'll end up on the news, shaking my head and saying 'I warned her not to go'."
He kept asking through out the week, and I never gave him a defiant "No", but I certainly never said "Yes".
Everyone at work apparently picks on him, for reasons unknown to me. So I guess it wasn't a rare occasion when they sent him home for one day for an antic as simple as spinning a hanger around on his finger. The day that happened, I was working with Heather. That night when we clocked out, we walked outside together and what do you know, CC is waiting at the corner of the building, the one I need to round to get home. He was all "slicked up" as Heather put it. He had walked from home, 25 minutes or so, just to meet me outside of work. He said with sincere sorrow that the fishing trip was cancelled. I pretended to be distraught, although in reality I couldn't care less about anything he was saying. I just kept looking over at my house, hunger and thirst taking preoccupying my mind.
"You have beautiful hair," he complimented (which, granted, I do. Long, black and lucious.) I said a simple thanks, and he added "When you wear it down, you look like an Amazon Goddess." I snickered. Who
says that? "So, I was wondering if you'd like to go out with me."
I shook my head and mentally joined the conversation. "What do you mean, 'go out'?"
"You know. Be my girlfriend?"
I've never been asked that in my entire life, so I wasn't experienced with letting guys down. I'm not exactly a big catch, so it was never a problem in high school.
"Uhhhhh, that's something that, you know, gradually happens, over time. Look, I have to go."
"Alright. So, is it too early to ask for a kiss?"
I said "Uh, yeah" with an "obviously" sort of tone before I stomped home, leaving him alone in the parking lot's dim lighting.
Bare with me, it gets better.
He kept calling me every night, obsessively. I caught him watching me at work constantly, always walking by and giving me some sort of necklace. One time, he was carrying this giant sandbox shaped like a crab that had multiple parts, and he said "I like your necklace, Samantha." It was a long strand of fake pearls. Before I could emotionlessly thank him for the compliment, he began dropping all the parts of the sandbox.
"I just fall to pieces when I'm around you," he muttered, picking them all back up before scurrying away, embarrassed.
Shit like that kept happening, but only when I was alone. If I was alongside Lacy or Heather or someone, he wouldn't approach me. So began the "Cici's Pizza" alarm- the codeword created for us to shout whenever we saw him near. It worked, too. It would go by unnoticed to him if Heather would randomly call out to me "Cici's pizza!", but it gave me time to cling to someone's side.
When I told Lacy about the codeword and how she could not, under any circumstance, leave me or else I'd be crept on, she thought I was exaggerating. But the second she left my side, she watched as he LITERALLY CAME OUT OF NOWHERE to talk to me. She ran to me, running into my cart in the process, and he stopped talking mid-sentence and left.
"Told you I wasn't kidding!" I exclaimed. She kept me on an invisible leash for the rest of the day.
Eventually, after time unfolded, I told him I had a boyfriend, just to get him to back off. He did slightly, but would still ask me out every now and then, "just as friends." I'm still dodging him.
That's all you need to know for now about Cici's Pizza.
In fact, I think I've covered everything that's necessary to know. You'll learn about each floor bitch throughout the entries, if you decide to keep checking this blog. Which I highly suggest.
- Samantha
