Cigarettes & Impulse: A Doorman’s Perspective

Edited & Republished 2005

Prologue
For all the customers who were never rude or obnoxious, never cruel or heartless, never annoying or frustrating, never dirty or smelly, never loud or boisterous, never demanding or condescending.

But above all, for all the customers who never entered the store.

This is for you all, with thanks,
J(aded)

“Good morning, how are you?”
“Fine. Can I leave this here with you?”
“Oh, yes, sure but I will need tag that bag.”
*(insert grin)*

I have a confession to make. For eight months, I was a door greeter at Big W. I was the one at the front of the store who had to tag customer’s bags on their way in, and then tear up those tags on their way out. I was the one who had to say ‘hello’ to everybody who walked in, and ‘goodbye’ to everybody who walked out. I was the one who had to stand in the same place for eight hours a day, only breaking for lunch (if I was very, very lucky). I was the face of Big W. Let me tell you about it…

Door greeters are super-humans. I was convinced they had to go through a rigorous training regime before they could make it in the big and bad (not to mention ugly!) world of department store security. Well, if this involved standing next to a qualified door greeter, who mind you had 60 years experience under his (very large) belt, and observing their every move for a three-hour period, and maybe, just maybe, if you were lucky enough, you’d get to trial that staple gun, that simple power tool that says “I-am-so-special-I-can-staple-paper-to-plastic”, then I was overqualified.

Just like any ‘normal’ employee (and I use the term very loosely), I had a strict procedure to follow. Oh yes, I was constantly being monitored, particularly on my trolley behaviour. It was a custom of the store that we leave three trolleys (not two!) at the door for those impulse shoppers who are too lazy to take a trolley in with them, and have to come back and snatch one, smiling embarrassingly. Not before already attempting to carry a treadmill, 16 litres of Dulux Ultra-Sheen Acrylic and a mixed assortment of men’s briefs to the registers. In any case, this incumbent trolley would soon be replaced by another of its kind for the next languid fool. But if the trolley-replace delay exceeded 43 seconds, Kim, Troll(ey) Queen and bitch extraordinaire would soon be riding my wheels. Trolley trauma did not stop there. People can be so lazy, yes, even in a country town, and such laziness has got the trolley boys running scared, but of course they were never around to deal with the irate customers who wanted a trolley to, wait for it… put their even lazier kids in. Let the bastard child walk I say, it’s got legs, they both might point in the same direction but that’s normal around here. Anyway, they would eventually get their trolley and usually walked out with the damn thing empty. I’d have been tempted to exchange the ‘damaged goods’ hanging off the sides.

If I thought that was painful (and believe me I did), I obviously hadn’t experienced the grief of tag torture yet. In all honesty, the ‘tag’ was the only reason I had a job. We lived and breathed for the ‘tag’, we fought for its existence and we put it to rest. Even now, years later, I sometimes lie awake at night, just thinking of the ‘tag’. The ‘tag’ changed my life, and the lives of so many people. I think there’s a little ‘tag’ in all of us really.

“Wait a minute,” I hear you ask, “Just what is ‘tag’?” Ah, the ‘Tag’. The Big W security tag… a thin strip of coloured paper, with the date stamped on it. I know, I know, it sounds pathetic that my life could be so affected by pastel stationery, but it was. Just like mood rings change colour when you’re feeling happy or sad, the ‘Tag’ acts in much the same way – each colour representing a different mood. For example, yellow tag days were happy days, blue tag days were sad, pink meant I was sexually frustrated (there was never enough pink… poor, young, gay boy in the country). Only difference was, instead of moods dictating the colours, the colours dictated my mood. Oh, and mood rings don’t end up stapled to your fingers (you have no idea how blood on the store floor would turn customers off). Isn’t that a Michael Jackson song?!

The concept of the tag is a novel one indeed (*eyeroll*). Strategic staple placement of one of these think strips of paper, could eliminate all shoplifting…seriously! Oh, but hang on, if it was a Big W bag the process would go no further. We don’t ‘secure’ them. They’re impenetrable… or is it that we assume you have a docket for that dodgy women’s lingerie??? Sure, if you wanted to steal something, bring a Big W bag from home, knock yourself out! Even better, when you leave, go through the checkouts because they don’t check ANY bags, they have better things to do.

Although it seems like an easy job, tearing the tag could be torture, literally. Quite apart from the obvious emotional turmoil of the tag itself (Tag rights! Tag rights!), the paper cuts were endless. This was usually the result of some staff not knowing the correct method of tag attachment to in-store departmental purchases. Have you ever tried pulling off of a tag that’s been taped the wrong way? Didn’t think so. But seriously, you just can’t get a grip on the damn thing. You end up tearing the customer’s bag to shreds, using so much force that that you inadvertently smack them in the face. But I digress.

Those bags that did risk leaving the store via the door greeter were opened and thoroughly examined. It is hard to believe that I could do such a thorough check without touching the bag, and in the space of about 3 seconds when I was given the inside glance. Needless to say, you’d be surprised just how much of the contents of customers’ personal hand luggage I could remember. Oh, the fond memories I have of seeing the most extraordinary objects inside people’s bags – purses, keys, tissues… the occasional ‘neck massager’…the list is endless! Really, only two items stand out as commonalities in this community – cigarettes & Impulse. Believe me, if you were a female teenager accompanied by a back-pack no bigger than a pocket, these were your most prized possessions. I must admit that I strongly objected to the checking of these bags because of their non-regulation size according to bag-check descriptions, yet I felt obliged to personally invade their private worlds. Well, as mentioned earlier, mine was fairly non-eventful at the time. It was just great to see that someone was going places.

Anyone that entered the store was obviously going places, even if it was just to the hardware counter or the electrical department. And yet, so many of the people with such bright futures, had no idea where they were going, absolutely no concept of where anything was in the store. Unfortunately for me, I wasn’t 8-feet tall, and so I was unable to rattle of item locations on the spot… especially when so many customers failed to return unwanted products to their designated department, let alone shelf. I used to find Vaseline in the lingerie department, methylated spirits in the soft-drink aisle and even paint thinner at the cosmetics counter. Again I digress. Hence, I couldn’t understand how anyone with adequate eyesight couldn’t just read the overhead department signs, after all, that’s all I did. “Gardening? Hmmm, that would be over there below that sign that says ‘Gardening’”. Muppet. Sometimes it was fun just to see someone follow your directions, albeit misleading, to the far corners of the store.

To the customer, I was a god. Once they entered the store I was in control of their destiny (and sometimes their children! Don’t ask.) A destiny that could so easily be cut short with the snap of my fingers. Oh yeah, I had power. Power you wouldn’t believe. If I suspected a thief, I could have them followed. If I detected a price-swap in progress, I could have it scanned. But could I catch a thief? Hell no! I couldn’t catch a cold (well, except for the time that snivelling, diseased infant hacked up a lung on my tie). I felt useless, from the moment I signed on at the start of the day. It frustrated me to see a thief walk out of the store with something concealed in his pants that I wasn’t allowed to check… ahem. I felt cheated and abused, but now I realise just how much joy this gave the ‘real’ store security. And he’s paying for it now… 20 years to life!

Big W staff were another thing altogether. Perhaps you’ve heard of them…."In 1972 a crack commando unit was sent to prison by a military court for a crime they didn't commit. They promptly escaped from a maximum security stockade to the Suburban underground. Today, still wanted by the government, they survive as soldiers of fortune. If you have a problem, if no one else can help, and if you can find them, maybe you can hire: THE (Big) W-TEAM."

All legends in their own lunchboxes. None more so than Mr T. Ably partnered by his handheld stock-management electronic gun thingamajig. It never left his side. I’m convinced he even used it to wipe his arse. (*bleep* Invalid Shrinkage *bleep*). I suppose being a store manager he had a tight ship to run, but one could be excused for thinking that tight ship had run right up his overly-sized arse. Apart from his briefcase look (though more of a man-bag if you ask me) he had no idea about staff management whatsoever, let alone customer service. He was always only too concerned with making budget. Believe me, if I could have had my way I would have budgeted his face all over the store floor.

I was also ‘privileged’ to work with (T)Sue, or should that be, for (T)Sue. She had a nasty little habit of leaving a trail of destruction in her wake. We got on like a house on fire – whenever she reared her ugly head, it was ‘get down low and go, go, go!’ (T)Sue’s main problem with me was that on occasion, I liked to have lunch after 10am, however this often conflicted with her scheduling of the check-out operators’ meal breaks. I remember one time I requested a later lunch, she told me to ‘whistle dixie’?! (Thesaurus: English (Australia) No results were found) She always did have a way with words… here’s one letter for you (T)Sue, it’s a Big W for wench!

But not all the staff were as rude. I was constantly being compared to the ‘fantastic with children’ George. He was the permanent doorman who ‘provided’ my initial ‘training’ (again, I use the terms loosely). He had worked at Big W since the beginning of time, and everybody in town knew him. On weekends though it was a case of… “Gee, you’ve changed, George!” or jibes from disgruntled parents of screaming children, “George gives out lollies!” Yeah, little did they know that they were the lollies from the jar of water he kept his teeth in every night. Everybody thought the world of George… I thought he was well past his prime.

If the staff weren’t driving me mental, I was my own worst enemy. On countless occasions I questioned my sanity. As a door greeter I had my own little world in which to retreat, a world where the door-greeter was hero. Repeatedly, I would set up scenarios in my head where I would save the day – be it in bomb detection, armed hold-ups or hostage negotiation situations. Pity I was so engrossed in my thoughts one day that I failed to detect a stolen fan under a ‘customer’s’ arm. However, little did I realise that (T)Sue & Kim (aka ‘the wench’ and ‘bitch extraordinaire’) had set the whole thing up to scam me! And on the final day of a two week stint filling in for King-of-the-Kids George who was on leave (think it was a hip replacement or something like that…). Mr T approached me and informed me that ‘we have a problem’. I was told that if it happened again I was out (did he mean out of contention for employee of the month?).

If you are going to survive each day at the door, there are four letters that you must honour… F.U.C.. oh, hang on, T.I.M.E. Unlike most people who don’t have even enough time to pick their nose at work, I had enough to pick my nose, scratch my arse AND whistle dixie! With so much time on my hands, I needed to allocate special tasks to pass the day. That is, apart from doing the actual job that I was employed to do. Obviously, my whole day ran by the clock with each individual activity being planned right down to the last second. Apart from the continuous presentation of a select few product lines on display at store entry, I was quite heavily engrossed in statistical research behind the bag-tag process… in layman’s terms, I was so friggin’ bored I often counted how many bags I tagged and how many tags I ripped. If this wasn’t enough to commit me to the local asylum (or Lay-By, as I liked to call it) I personally signed every single tag before affixing it to a bag. And worse still, I read the same crappy catalogue over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over! (Now you’re starting to get an idea of just what it was like.)

These time-passers were so heavily embedded in my routine that they became a vital part of surviving the day’s deliverances. To further enhance my role as supreme door greeter, I artistically designed the display boards that promoted the weekly specials. A lot of time and effort went into their preparation (including some subliminal advertising of my own). And I’ll never forget the day I super-glued a $2 coin to the floor just inside the entrance… people can be so predictable.

Now in all honesty I can’t say that my time as a door greeter didn’t teach me anything. Why I learnt to perfect quite a few things. One being that smile that says, “I care.” Nightly, I would practice this smile at home in front of the mirror, trying to perfect it, using as little effort as possible. And it still holds me in good stead today. I also developed cursing under my breath. Little did customers realise just how I truly felt about their presence in my store.

The climax of my day was the final hour, even though at times it did feel like an Australian Idol: Verdict show. The first half of this hour was devoted to deep cleaning the service desk and my side-stand. Joy. I mean, who’d turn down an opportunity to get down on all fours in a public place… and get paid for it! The second half of the final hour was more strenuous (if you could imagine). I would rip the remaining tags that had not been used that day, not just in half but in quarters, yes, but not all at once, hell no, this had to last twenty minutes! In groups of three I would dispose of the tags that I had stamped earlier that day. With ten minutes remaining I would haul in the two (out-of-order) Pepsi machines, rearrange the trolley bay so that no trolley would be left outside the shutters (never mind the hundred or so that were currently sprawled all over town), and bring in the garbage bin and ‘right-to-inspect-bag’ sign. Acting synchronously with the ‘5-mins-to-close’ call, I would proceed to the service desk to get the front shutter key where I would then wait until the final shopper call before lowering the entrance shutter (and if possible, usually on someone). But wait, my day had not yet finished. It was then my duty to keep any other shoppers from entering the store through the checkouts. This usually involved offensive language, violence, bloodshed and insinuations about mothers… and that was just from me! But hey, it was all part ‘n parcel of being a door greeter at a friendly department store. And as my badge said, “Our people make the difference.” Ain’t that the truth… we were speshul.

I think being a door greeter was good for me. I mean, where else can someone gain such valuable humanitarian experience. I know that now I am ready for anything. Now I can go out and tackle the world, grab it by the balls and say, “Hey man, you don’t know, you weren’t there!” And in years to come I will still appreciate those few months of pain and torture. I know exactly what it was like. I see these young door greeters today, and they’re just kids, and it’s so sad. But now I’m no longer wearing that badge, and all I can say is… ‘Hi, I’m J(aded). I don’t care.’

The Mystery of the Twelfth Carrot (Part 2: The Giant Carrot)

Published courtesy of Victim of Narcisssism

I stopped the car at the entrance to the construction site. Taking my car phone, I dialled the office.
“Primate Detectives, good morning. Primate Detectives.”
“Hello Ginger, this is Harry.”
“Good morning Mr Primate, and a good morning to you.”
“Yes, thankyou Ginger, would you do me a favour?”
“Anything Mr Primate, anything.”
“Could you see if you can find an article in my files on the ‘Giant Carrot’ construction?”
“Certainly…yes, here it is…shall I read it to you, or just read it over the phone?”
“No just leave it on my desk with your letter of resignation, if it’s no trouble.”
“Pardon?”
“Nevermind, just leave it on my desk please.”
“Straight away. Is there anything else, or something else you wanted?”
“No thankyou Ginger, goodbye.”
“Goodbye Mr Primate, I’ll see you soon, and…”
I quickly hung up the phone, and mosied on over to the construction site.

“Afternoon, fellas,” I addressed the construction workers. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Harold B. Primate of Primate Detectives, ‘b’ for bloody good. I am investigating a break-in at the Cardiff International Food Packaging Plant, an incident which is carrot-related. Have any of you had any involvement at all with carrots?”
One of the workers stepped forward, a little anxiously, and whispered in my ear, “Mr Primate, my name is Johnny Carolicci. I wonder if I could speak with you in primate, uh, oh sorry, I meant private?”
“Certainly Mr Carolicci. Please excuse us, gentlemen.”
Mr Carolicci led me to a more secluded area of the construction site.
“What was it that you wanted to tell me, Mr Carolicci?”
“You want to know about carrots? I can tell you about carrots. I don’t know why I ever got involved. I started having carrots socially, you know? I’d just go out with some friends, find a 24 hour greengrocer...but I just couldn’t stop...I’m sorry, have you got a tissue?”
“Yes of course, I always have one. If you can, please go on.”
Johnny Carolicci was silent for a few seconds, waiting for me to give him my tissue. When he realised that I wasn’t go to, he continued.
“Well soon it go to be that I couldn’t leave the house without a dozen in my pockets, not counting all the carrot juice I went through…I just didn’t care, I’d have a carrot anywhere, anytime. You can probably guess the rest. I lost all my friends, all my possessions. I just didn’t know what I was doing. I never realised just how dangerous carrots could really be.”
“Pull yourself together man!”
“I’m sorry, I just, I don’t know. I must just be a terrible person.”
“Hey, hey, perk up.” I reached into my pocket, grabbed my travel microphone, and began to sing, “You’ve got to get up every morning, with a smile on your face, and show the world all the love in your heart. Then people gonna treat you better, you’re gonna find, yes you will, that you’re beautiful, as you fell.”
“Thankyou Mr Primate, I feel so much better now.”
“That’s great. There’s nothing like a song to brighten up your day. Oh, and there’s another thing I need to ask you, where did you get the carrots from?”
“Oh, I got them at the back of Frank’s Zucchinis ‘n Stuff, you know, next to Wither’s Hair Care in Main St.”
“Of course – those pesky Withers, haha. Well I’d best be off.”

The Mystery of the Twelfth Carrot (Part 1: The Carrot Haul)

Published courtesy of Victim of Narcisssism

The weather was oppressive that day, as I stoppeed the car outside the front of my office - Harold B. Primate Detectives ('b' for bloddy good!). My car radio was playing that evergreen classic "Not Quite on the Station", as I closed the car door, and walked inside. My secretary, Ginger Ginger brought in the morning's case sheet.
"Morning Mr Primate. Case sheet for Friday 22nd of September. Two apes missing from Cardiff Zoo. Hold-up at Cardiff Central Bank. Carrot haul at Cardiff International Food Packaging Plant. Take your pick, Mr Primate. Take your pick, Mr Primate."
"Hmm, read me all you've got on the carrot haul."
"Carrot haul, Mr Primate, carrot haul, Mr Primate. 2:30am this morning, Cardiff International Food Packaging Plant ('tinned and packed with individual care...') was broken into. Around two thousand carrots were stolen. Just over nineteen hundred of these were later recovered - peeled, and washed on the floor of the plant."
I could tell straight away that this was no ordinary case. This was truly the work of a very sick individual. Lately my days had been filled with divorces, lost handbags, that sort of thing. I needed a challenge. "I'll take it Ginger!"
"Yes sir, I'll get on to the plant straight away. Straight away. I'll just get on to the plant. Yes sir, straight away..."
"Thankyou Ginger, that will be all!" Honestly, I would have to get a new secretary, get a new secretary. Oh God!"

Driving out to the plant, I thought about the case some more. A death threat carrot had arrived with this morning's mail, and the post mark revealed a possibly valuable clue - it had been posted in Cardiff. I had a feeling in my bones, this carrot was from our man - it had been peeled, and smelt of detergent.
When I arrived at the plant, I was greeted by Dr Orrgrhhihrr, Head of the Division of Tinned Vegetables.
"Good Morning, Doctor."
"Yes, hello, you are Harold Primate, of Primate Detectives?"
"Harold B. Primate, 'b' for bloody good!"
"Yes quite. Well, I'll give you the facts, and then let you see the place for yourself. Umhum?"
"Umhum?"
"I said 'umhum'," explained Dr Orrgrhhihrr.
"Oh, sorry... and the facts?"
"Umhum?"
"Umhum!"
"Oh! Forgive me...at around 2:30am..."
"Excuse me, but is that 2:30am this morning?"
"Yes...2:30am, somebody broke into the main carrot bay, and began peeling and washing the carrots."
"How do you know this Doctor...Orgaherrire?"
"Orrgrhhihrr."
"I beg your pardon?"
"My name - it's Orrgrhhihrr."
"Oh, well, um, ah, du-wop, shoo-be-do."
"Well...anyway, the reason I know is that our security cameras caught it. Unfortunately, I er, seem to have misplaced the tape. In any case, the alarm went off, and the man picked up about a hundred carrots, and ran for his life."
"Did he catch it?"
AN EMBARRASSED PAUSE
"Sorry, a little joke there," I explained
"Oh. Ahem, haha, oh yes, ha. Quite amusing."
"Well thankyou Dr Organgrinder, you've beenmost helpful."

Dr Orrgrhhihrr hovered for a while, and then ducked behind a large box. I read over my notes. '2:30 am this morning, man seen entering main carrot bay. He proceeds to peel and wash carrots. Alarm goes off. Alarm goes off.'
"Darn!", I scribbled out the last few words, and continued. 'Picks up around 100 carrots, and flees. Videotape of events lost by Dr Orrsomething.'
I looked around the plant a little, and after finding nothing of any value, I left.
Crossing the bridge on the way back to the office I saw it...the giant carrot construction. "Aha! A clue!" I exclaimed. The overly large woman in the car next to me stared.

iPod...iDo?

Portable music and I have not always had the best relationship...especially when it comes to car audio. Twice I've had my car stereo stolen, neither were CD players and one even had a detachable face! (hindsight's a wonderful thing). Admittedly, I did leave my vehicle parked in risky areas in the city (and overnight!) while I danced the night away at one of Oxford Street's fine establishments, but the car salesman never told me that Mitsubishi Mirages are notoriously easy to break into! And what's more, the manufacturer-fitted player that comes standard in a new Mirage is exceptionally easy to steal (obviously with a little street know-how!?). Needless to say, I persisted with my, shall I say 'frugal' behaviour and was the victim a second time around. I then opted for a fairly standard-looking cassette player that I could connect a portable discman to. Hardly a wireless operation, I've got knobs and plugs all over the place. Some sexy music (!) and a few towels and I'd rival one of the local gay saunas! In the early days I would take my discman with me whenever I left the car, then I got a little lazy and thought I'd hide it under the passenger seat, lately it just sits there in full view. What now drives me crazy is that every time you stop/start the car the player seems to reset, CDs go back to track one and the volume returns to zero! Very frustrating! I don't think I've heard past track 3 on any of my recent CDs for a good month! Sure, it's just a matter of skipping but when a lot of my music is (ssshh) full-album rips off the web, it burns as one track! So now I have a decision to make... do I buy an iPod Mini that will store all my music (legal and otherwise) that can be played through an FM radio frequency on my current car stereo (no wires, no worries)? I will no doubt have to take it with me everywhere but it is considerably more portable than any discman. It negates the risk of any alternative CD/MP3 Car Stereo installed being stolen, plus I also the get the benefit of using it when I'm not driving. Hmmm... with 12 months interest free on the cards, I think I'm ready to make a committment!

Me? A Superhero?