Sears: A Wasted Life

19 Feb

I was in the middle of an intense Ab-Isolator session when the call came in.

“Ma’am. Yes, hello.  Sears calling. We’d like to offer you the job of sales associate. Be here at 9 a.m. sharp. Under the escalator.”

Well. I guess this was it then. Grown up life. I’d already blown through my graduation money, so it was high time I got out there, put on my helmet and belly flopped into the middle of the rat race.

So I found the escalator. I saw Randy before he saw me. In this brief purgatory, I debated staying or running across the parking lot and hiding out in Taco Bell all day so my mom wouldn’t know I was a complete and totally irresponsible delinquent. I decided to proceed.

Randy wore one of those black rubber digital watches. You know what I’m talking about. I don’t even need to describe it. He glanced at it to remind me that he was the manager and had his whole eyeball up in the sky and wouldn’t tolerate one smidgen of tomfoolery. I sniffed, Don Knotts style, to let him know I didn’t give a wippety-ding-dong about his pathetic superiority.

It was obvious that Randy hadn’t been manager for more than five minutes. An awkward silence followed by crickets chirping caused me to clear my throat and take charge of the declining situation.

“Sooo. What sales will I be associating?”

I smirked at the brilliance of my own wit. Randy and I were obviously NOT on the same page. Randy was that hardcore.

“I like your vest.”

(If humor doesn’t work, then I suggest you move right along to insincere flattery.)

“Oh. Thanks! “

(Works every time.)

“You will be responsible for making keys. All kinds of keys. House keys, car keys, lockbox keys, storage keys. Take this manual and familiarize yourself with the foundation key shapes so the customer isn’t forced to wait while you learn on the job.”

I took the tri-fold pamphlet like an Olympic baton.


“We’re professional here, April.”


I tuned Randy’s nasal ramblings right on out of my head and focused in on the monstrous metal beast of a key maker behind him. Yesssss. Let me get on that thing! My ears perked back up when I heard Randy say,

“…and there will be some days when you’ll be working in our parking lot location.”

The parking lot location! The key hut!!

“When do I go out there?”

“You must first learn the ways.”

I wanted to get one centimeter from his face and hoarsely whisper, “Grasshoppaaahhhhh.” But I didn’t want to get fired before fully experiencing the hut.

I didn’t stay long with Sears. After numerous complaints about excessive “Will Be Back At:” sign hangings, I was kindly let go. Whatever. It didn’t matter. I was fixing to go work for a massage therapist with an English sheepdog named Zack. I didn’t need this stupid job anyway. Boo-Ya!


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