I've had a lot of jobs - some great, others so bad that I only lasted days, like my stint at our local dry cleaner. While dropping off my father's shirts one day, I noticed a help wanted sign on the door. Since my parents were getting fed up with me constantly hitting them up for cash and I got the "Do you know how lucky you are?" talk more times than I can remember, I decided that getting a job would score some big points. Besides, I needed some cash for an upcoming Stray Cats concert and didn't want to ask my parents for more money so soon after the "talk."
I'd join the after school work force. I'd show my parents that I understood how hard work could be. I'd show some initiative. Roll up my fair isle sweater sleeves. Show some drive. Learn some discipline. Show some "can do" spirit.
So when I asked the lady at the counter if I could apply, she raised her eyebrows and said, "Really?"
I should have known.
Somehow, I hadn't realized that I'd actually have to touch those dirty shirts and smelly down comforters. Now those cotton oxfords weren't grimy, but the thought of handling a stranger's garments was unsettling. Hell, I don't even like picking up my own family's soiled laundry and if I could design giant 'laundry tongs' to avoid direct contact with skid marked undies, I would. And keeping all the orders separate and intact when most of the ladies in town dumped their mounds of wrinkled shirts on the counter and ran out the door to make their tee-time, was simply overwhelming.
"Hmm...does this Brooks Brothers shirt belong to Mr. Hastings? Or Mr. Barnes? or Mr. Kelley? "How many shirts did Mrs. Carroll drop off?"
I'd end up tossing shirts in what ever bag was closest and hoped that they wouldn't realize that their monogrammed initials weren't their own.
I lasted two weeks. Though I am sure I would have got sacked, I called the owner and told her it just wasn't going to work.
"It's not a good fit, " I said.
A few months later a group of us got hired at one of my father's client's companies as telemarketers flogging insulation. Well, put a gaggle of kooky estrogen fueled teen girls in a room with dozens of phones, stacks of phone directories, a pushover of a boss and you've got the perfect spot to launch endless rounds of prank phone calls. While we should have been calling folks setting up estimates, we'd end up phoning the fraternity houses at Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute (RPI) posing as Farrah, Savannah or Georgette, chatting up the young and untouchable Greek boys using our best Southern, French or Indian accents.. Those were the good old days before the advent of caller ID where you were free to make untraceable prank calls.
It was a blast.
Until the sales numbers came in and we all got fired.
Then we all moved to the new Kmart across town and got to wear those fashionable and oh so hip blue smocks that made us look like smurfs. I got stuck on register while my friends were assigned to cosmetics and shoes and got to hide in the stockroom or aisles, pretending to work. The best part of my shift was turning off my register light as a loaded shopping cart was pulling into my aisle. "Sorry, I'm closed," I'd smile.
So you can imagine Sissy's sheer trepidation and outright terror when she approached me a few weeks back and asked if I would like to help her out.
Sissy works as a District Manager and one of her accounts is the unnamed manufacturer of a certain chic coffee machine. One of her jobs involves setting up demonstrations in upscale malls over the holiday season and she's has had difficulties finding responsible ladies and gents to do the Demos. Unlike me, sissy is a model employee- she goes far beyond what most employees do to get the job done right. She's an organizing machine, running through paperwork, emails and phone calls with the speed and efficiency of a giant paper shredder. She has 'to do' lists and strikes out each task with vengeance. Her home office is a hive of activity, her walls plastered with post -its and excel spread sheets, phones ringing, computers groaning under the stress of another long work day.
My 'to-do' lists end up flying out my office window or get lost below a mountain of notes and files. Notes from interviews are smudged by tea cup rings. I move from window to window, room to room, fridge to freezer, in an aimless drift, eventually finding myself back to my computer.
Sissy was desperate.
And I wanted one of those swanky machines. (a job perk)
"Yes! I can be a Demo Lady. I won't let you down, Sissy," I said.
I'd show Sissy that I could serve coffee with a smile to all those wonderfully polite shoppers who, at the first recognizable sniff of that familiar odor, start a stampede , knocking over senior citizens, the infirm, infants in carriages, all to score a free 8 ounce cup of coffee. I'd win them over. I'd happily and eagerly explain how the magical machine effortlessly burps out a cup of java in seconds .I'd serve them with a smile. Draw them in with my winning personality. And be really nice.
Well, umm....being a Demo Lady is hard work. After standing on my tootsies for over 9 hours with my Sissy, I've come to the conclusion that this body wasn't designed to stand in an upright position for an extended period of time, unless, of course, I'm shopping.
My hips, back and knees ached, and I had tankles- my gastrocnemius muscles ran right into my foot, my ankles had simple vanished under the fold of fluid. And oh, dear, the feet. My long toes looked like Jones' breakfast sausages, my shoes straining under their growing girth. My lipstick melted onto my face. And my perpetual under eye bags had become suitcases.
Half way into my gig as a Demo Lady, I wanted to unplug my machine, rip off my apron, and sprint toward my car, but every time I entertained that thought, Sissy's big brown eyes, heavy with the weight of trying to find responsible Demo Ladies, looked over at me. (Because most of the hiring is done over the phone, you never quite know what you are getting - everyone can talk a good game over the phone- "Oh, yes, I LOVE serving coffee," "I am a people person" "I look professional" "I am responsible." and "You can count on me.")
How could I let my Sissy down? She wasn't just my boss: she was my sister. We shared DNA and our crazy family history. We shared more than our fair share of deep guttural laughs and heart wrenching tears. No, I couldn't do a 'runner'. I'd have to stand with my fellow Demo Sisters and Brothers (yes, there was a Demo Man) and slug it out.
I'd persevere. I'd welcome the four deep crowd with open arms. I'd find pleasure in serving 500 cups of Hazelnut and French Vanilla. I'd soften the crabby ones with my charm and wit.And I'd smile when I recognized the ones who came back for seconds and thirds and fourths. After all, it was for Sissy. And I'd just about do anything for her- except fill in as a Demo Lady next Christmas.
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