Intro to Geography
I dust KISS figurines for a living. Assorted bobbleheads. Erotic photography. I dust every flat or fuzzy or rotund surface in a store full of items no one needs. The place reeks of stale sage or ylang-ylang, and my job description includes knowing the difference. I don’t.
I can see myself doing this for the rest of my life.
As in: “If I’m not careful, I could be doing this for the rest of my life.”
To read more, visit the annotated networked version of Careers in Geography.
But I had plans for things. Great things. Vague, wonderful things. Nothing has fallen into my lap just yet. It probably won’t work out.
In five short weeks of post-collegiate gainful employment, I’ve already learned valuable on-the-job skills such as how to hand people what’s left of their money and how to sort rubber duckies into their designated buckets, based on size and any optional clever attributes (demonic or dead or pink). I’m still working on how to win friends and influence people while avoiding retail’s temptations toward the occasional murderous rampage. An additional learning curve applies.
The manager loves me already. Today she sits me down in the back room (full of mounted fantastical creatures built with the taxidermied parts of regular creatures, cartoonish so-called low-brow fine art and the smell things get when they’ve been dusty for decades too long) and she tells me she loves me already.
If we wore nametags, hers would say Tammi, probably with a doodle of a heart with spikes through it dotting the letter “i.”
“I love you already,” she says. “We all do.” Her pregnant stomach looks like it’s about to pop the latches on her overalls and send a button flying into my eye.
“Thanks” is all it seems safe to say since I’m not sure where this is going. I’m perched on the fingertip of a giant orange hand cupped to form a chair.
“It’s a big step, but I think you can do this.” The deep breath and enthusiasm of someone about to deliver a happy surprise. “We want you to be our new assistant manager.”
She pauses with her eyebrows up for my reaction, which I haven’t had yet.
“I’d train you before I go on maternity leave. It’s a dollar more an hour.” I must blink at her at least twice before she finally puts her eyebrows down and says, “How’s that sound?”
“Thanks,” I say again, same hesitation. It should sound good, but does it?
It’s an awesome place to work while your band is getting off the ground. One of my coworkers told me this when I started, and now I’m in charge of eight other people, some who were hired the same day I was, some who have worked here for years.
“You’re going to love it. After your lunch break I’ll walk you through the procedure I use for closing out the register. Each manager does it their own way, but I think you’ll like mine best — I do.”
She gives me a hug before she leaves. She is this tiny woman reaching over her big rubber ball of a belly to get to me, because she has made tchotchkes her world, and because she sincerely thinks I have what it takes to do the same.
Maybe I do have What It Takes:
• a fear of real jobs, commitments, the unknown, the known
• a lease with payments bigger than my parents’ mortgage
• a four-year degree, honors with an emphasis in uselessness
“And don’t forget to punch out.” As she leaves, her words trail off the way ominous double entendres often do.
So I punch out and I walk out the glass front door that last week I got to clean after someone threw raw eggs against it. I walk past the collapsible gate I pull closed after every night shift, past the flyers for gigs and art shows and boob jobs that it’s my sworn task to straighten before we open each morning. I turn the corner and lean against the big painted eyes of rough cement covering the side of the building.
I do multiplication. My paycheck will finally cover rent, with six complete dollars left over.
“Welcome to the Real World” is the number-one piece of advice I hear this summer. It’s fake advice. Useless. NOTICE THE CAPITAL LETTERS.
In five short weeks of post-collegiate gainful employment, I’ve already learned valuable on-the-job skills such as how to hand people what’s left of their money and how to sort rubber duckies into their designated buckets, based on size and any optional clever attributes (demonic or dead or pink). I’m still working on how to win friends and influence people while avoiding retail’s temptations toward the occasional murderous rampage. An additional learning curve applies.
The manager loves me already. Today she sits me down in the back room (full of mounted fantastical creatures built with the taxidermied parts of regular creatures, cartoonish so-called low-brow fine art and the smell things get when they’ve been dusty for decades too long) and she tells me she loves me already.
If we wore nametags, hers would say Tammi, probably with a doodle of a heart with spikes through it dotting the letter “i.”
“I love you already,” she says. “We all do.” Her pregnant stomach looks like it’s about to pop the latches on her overalls and send a button flying into my eye.
“Thanks” is all it seems safe to say since I’m not sure where this is going. I’m perched on the fingertip of a giant orange hand cupped to form a chair.
“It’s a big step, but I think you can do this.” The deep breath and enthusiasm of someone about to deliver a happy surprise. “We want you to be our new assistant manager.”
She pauses with her eyebrows up for my reaction, which I haven’t had yet.
“I’d train you before I go on maternity leave. It’s a dollar more an hour.” I must blink at her at least twice before she finally puts her eyebrows down and says, “How’s that sound?”
“Thanks,” I say again, same hesitation. It should sound good, but does it?
It’s an awesome place to work while your band is getting off the ground. One of my coworkers told me this when I started, and now I’m in charge of eight other people, some who were hired the same day I was, some who have worked here for years.
“You’re going to love it. After your lunch break I’ll walk you through the procedure I use for closing out the register. Each manager does it their own way, but I think you’ll like mine best — I do.”
She gives me a hug before she leaves. She is this tiny woman reaching over her big rubber ball of a belly to get to me, because she has made tchotchkes her world, and because she sincerely thinks I have what it takes to do the same.
Maybe I do have What It Takes:
• a fear of real jobs, commitments, the unknown, the known
• a lease with payments bigger than my parents’ mortgage
• a four-year degree, honors with an emphasis in uselessness
“And don’t forget to punch out.” As she leaves, her words trail off the way ominous double entendres often do.
So I punch out and I walk out the glass front door that last week I got to clean after someone threw raw eggs against it. I walk past the collapsible gate I pull closed after every night shift, past the flyers for gigs and art shows and boob jobs that it’s my sworn task to straighten before we open each morning. I turn the corner and lean against the big painted eyes of rough cement covering the side of the building.
I do multiplication. My paycheck will finally cover rent, with six complete dollars left over.
“Welcome to the Real World” is the number-one piece of advice I hear this summer. It’s fake advice. Useless. NOTICE THE CAPITAL LETTERS.
To read more, visit the annotated networked version of Careers in Geography.