“Retail Worker Confessions”

c. 2019 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(6-19)

Perfect storm.

The term is one used to describe a confluence of events that precipitates a happening of consequence. Often, a natural disaster or moment of political revolution. But for this writer, I pondered these words recently, while using the social-media platform of Facebook.

I was invited to a group called “Retail Worker Confessions.” One apparently run out of the U. K. but populated by a good deal of Yankees like myself from across the big pond. A friend who I had known during days at Fisher’s Big Wheel and Giant Eagle sent the invite. She thought I might enjoy reading the colorful posts during bouts of lonely angst brought on by my early retirement from a career of store management.

I cheerfully accepted the group’s query and joined right away.

Upon reading through their creative texts for the first time, I discovered a wealth of familiar themes. Rude customers, abusive managers, chaotic middle-of-the-business-day occurrences. Plus, stories of boredom, pranks, improper workplace relationships, and drama.

After 33 years in the field, it was easy to offer comments. Though mine were a tad longer and composed more carefully. With a sense of both relief and personal release, I began to opine on various issues that the other members were discussing:

F. W. - “I may have made the worst hiring decision of my career. My new ASM has got into shouting matches with customers, associates, and my other manager, and yesterday, she basically walked off the job...”

My Response: “Documentation is key. As one company owner told me, ‘You build walls just like building a house.’ Since this person walked off the job, it constitutes a voluntary quit. The actions you describe by her are self-centered, disruptive, and completely unprofessional.”

C. G. (Texas) - “Ain’t nobody faker than your boss when the people from corporate office come to visit...”

My Response: “So true, performing the role with dedication. In many instances, the people from corporate were individuals promoted from the store level. At my first retail chain, our district manager had previously been in charge of our store. He knew the level of fakeness because he had skillfully employed it before. More than just looking for good conditions in our business, he was looking for managers that knew how to play the game.”

K. Z. (Minnesota) - “Meme - When a customer calls the store and gives you their life story before getting to the point of the call.”

My Response: “I often used to get the disclaimer about a customer having worked in retail or being connected to a company: ‘I or my brother/sister/aunt/uncle/father/mother/cousin/etc. was a supervisor for Kroger/Sears/Walmart/Target for 30 years, so I know exactly what you should do to solve my problem.’ This normally involved handing over gift cards or other rewards. When I spoke about following corporate guidelines regarding customer satisfaction, the conversation could and often would become more heated. But the results were the same.”

H. L. (Illinois) - “I found my orientation packet from a year ago, LOL. The Ten Commandments of Customer Relations. Our Customers… 1) Are the most important people in our business. 2) Are not dependent on us - we are dependent on them. 3) Are not interruptions of our work – they are the purpose of it. 4) Do us an honor when they call – we are not doing them a favor. 5) Are parts of our business – not outsiders. 6) Are not cold statistics – they are flesh-and-blood human beings with feelings and emotions like our own. 7) Are not people to argue or match wits with. 8) Are people who bring us their needs – and it is our job to fill those needs. 9) Are deserving of the most courteous and attentive treatment we can give them. 10) Have the right to expect an employee to present a neat, clean appearance.”

My Response: “Love them or hate them, they pay the bills. I have closed several stores in my career of 33 years. Without customers, no business can survive.”

J. T. (New Jersey) - “Meme – Company: Treats employees like s***. Employees: Quit. Company: Look of astonishment and surprise.”

My Response: “Makes me recall when a member of our overnight grocery crew was being threatened by an abusive store manager. The boss spewed four-letter words and waved his fists. So my co-worker said ‘Aw hell, I’m quitting anyway.’ Suddenly, our manager’s attitude changed completely. He turned shades of red. “No, no, please don’t screw me! Please!’”

J. B. (United Kingdom) - “Meme: Bosshole – A person who turns into an ass**** ten seconds after being made supervisor.”

My Response: “Reminds me of a store where the general manager had once been a stocker on night crew. His only location with the chain. I was the co-manager with years of corporate experience. He would project an attitude of complete superiority. But one older employee remembered: ‘When he was on 3^rd shift, they made him fill the bread and sweep up the store. No one trusted him to do anything else.’”

P. F. J. - “Meme: When you enforce policy and the customer gets upset.”

My Response - “Always important to maintain balance when handling customer situations. But in certain instances, for example, regarding sales of alcohol and tobacco, state regulations must be followed without exception. Customers often assume that raising their decibel level to a shouting pitch will get results. It doesn’t. Calls to the 1-800 customer hotline yield only a reinforcement of the regulations under which we operate.”

Many posts in the group were repeated, or were copies of those available generally in cyberspace. Still, I found myself commenting on various items that sparked personal reflection. After three decades and more of service in the industry, finding inspiration was not difficult. My only irritation was from those offering stories of sabotage or willful laziness. I reckoned a lesson on basic economics would have been helpful in their education. To be paid, one must work. To survive, a store must sell products. The goal is simple. Earn a profit for the company, be rewarded with a paycheck. Go home afterward and be grateful.

When motivating my crew, I would sometimes use naked honesty to get their attention. Once I confessed: “Look everybody, I don’t want to be here any more than you. I want to go home, open a beer and a bag of Doritos, and watch ESPN. But the only way to do that is for us all to get our duty list accomplished. Busy days go more quickly than slow ones. So let’s get to work!”

It was an admission appropriate for my new Facebook group. One I was likely to offer at a future date, when the timing and subject matter were aligned with synchronicity.

Comments about ‘Words on the Loose’ may be sent to: icewritesforyou@gmail.com

Write us at: P. O. Box 365 Chardon, OH 44024

“Golden Opportunity”

c. 2019 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(6-19)

Disability.

I have previously written in this space about my unexpected slide into early retirement and status as an out-of-service management veteran. A story that began when I could no longer continue my retail career at the age of 55. But more vexing than any physical ailment has been the journey toward understanding. With each new episode, I discover more about the world of those who have had life redefined by their infirmities.

My younger sister and brother paved the way for this journey, in family terms. She, having Multiple Sclerosis and he, issues with his lymphatic system. So I had some help in mapping out strategies. Yet in each case, my own version of the tale remained unique. A labored, plodding march toward daily goals set not by choice but instead, by need.

Most recently, I sought to apply for a Golden Buckeye card. A program I first encountered while working for Fisher’s Big Wheel, in the early 1980’s. I remembered that older patrons of my store would flash this trinket to receive discounts. When my sister mentioned that the program included disabled citizens like us, I was both intrigued and amused by a hint of nostalgia. But I promised to seek out an application.

A look at the Ohio Department of Aging website provided some clues:

“The Golden Buckeye program has been helping older Ohioans and other eligible adults make community connections for more than four decades. Nearly 2.5 million Ohioans are eligible for the Golden Buckeye card, including all Ohioans age 60 or older, as well as adults age 18-59 who have disabilities as defined by Social Security. The program empowers older Ohioans to become active, loyal customers who seek value and reward quality. It also supports locally owned and operated small businesses, which are vital to the character of each community.”

While searching for information, I visited the Geauga County Department on Aging website. There I discovered a page offering Medicare advice, another of my chores as a disabled person. I had just received my card from that government program after waiting two full years for coverage. Surreal to ponder, as my disability had been granted because of numerous health issues. I needed to learn more before making such health decisions.

“Medicare Answers! The Geauga Department of Aging has staff trained by the Ohio Department of Insurance ‘Ohio Senior Health Insurance Information Program’ to answer your Medicare questions. We can meet with you one on one or provide you materials throughout the year and during Medicare Open Enrollment, October until early December...”

I decided to visit their offices at 12555 Ravenwood Drive, south of Chardon.

The morning ride felt spectacular, after weeks of rain and gloom across our region. Temperatures were in the high 60’s, with a friendly breeze stirring the air. Skies overhead were blue and dotted with a few puffs of white. I was glad to get my truck on the road. When I reached the center itself, a sense of awe took hold. The facility was expansive and welcoming. A fresh architectural design. I noted a sign-in book stationed in the lobby. The couple ahead of me entered their names and time of arrival, so I did the same. Then, I searched for someone to provide assistance.

A woman at the front window looked somewhat puzzled when I asked to apply for the Golden Buckeye card, and for Medicare counseling. But she smiled with courtesy. “I am not sure that we have any of the forms here,” she said. “The person who handles that program is on her break, upstairs.”

Mentally, I prepared myself to wait. I held an envelope of materials that included my original disability award letter from Social Security, and my Medicare card.

“Let me see if I can meet her halfway,” she offered, after a pause. I nodded with gratitude. She made a call on the intercom system, then disappeared for a minute.

I took a seat in the lobby.

The receptionist returned quickly. Her mood was a bit more somber. “I am sorry sir, we do not have any of those forms. You might go down the road, to the Geauga County Library Administration building. Maybe they can help you.”

“What about Medicare advice?” I wondered out loud. “I am an AARP member and looked on the United Healthcare site. There were 10 plans listed. A bit confusing.”

The woman frowned with regret. “And those change every year! I am sorry, we can only help you if you are age 60 or older, sir. I would suggest visiting Job & Family Services. Go one direction for the library, the other for JFS.”

My eyes went wide open. “I will be 58 in September. Not really that far away.”

“Well, come back in two years then!” she cheered. “Whatever the case, have a great day!”

I left the building while musing about the taxpayer dollars that must have afforded its construction. A budget that would have been very welcome during my career as a supermarket manager. My own Medicare benefits officially began on July 1^st. Clearly, my health needs could not be ignored for over 24 months. Especially when considering that I had not been able to see a doctor since January of 2017. But I was literally close to the library building, also located on Ravenwood Drive.

A clerk at the front desk peered through her thick glasses as I explained my intentions. “You want a library card?” she said with a colorful accent.

“A Golden Buckeye card,” I repeated. “The Department on Aging could not help, despite the fact that it is a program administered by the state bureau. They suggested I try with you.”

She had to call for assistance.

A supervisor appeared after a brief interlude. She seemed determined to help. “You wanted a library card, sir?”

Once again, I repeated my desire for a Golden Buckeye card. She paged another supervisor, then called the library branch in Chardon for information.

“You can drive over there, where they have some of the forms,” she explained at last, or wait while I try to get one faxed here...”

I observed that Chardon was not far from my home in Thompson. I patted the keys in my pocket. But then, she brightened over the thought of figuring out my problem, personally.

“Wait here,” she offered. “Use our computers if you like. I’ll get this handled for you.”

Her insistence made me glad.

Before filling out the form, I had to speak with someone at the state offices, by phone. To confirm that I did not already possess a GB card. I assured the representative that this was most certainly the case. “Honestly, I can’t figure how anyone gets into this program, without receiving the privileges automatically,” I exclaimed. The fellow was not amused. Still, he confirmed my status.

My new librarian friend received the form in a jiffy. She helped me fill in the required details. “This will be useful, because my husband is also eligible,” she laughed. After being faxed, I was given the original document to use temporarily, until my official notice arrived.

“So while you are here, do you have a library card?” she said as an afterthought. I confessed that it had lapsed years ago, while living in Lake County for a period of time. Her patient assistance made me feel inspired. I signed up, once again.

My last visit of the day was to Job & Family Services. Another stop on Ravenwood Drive. Even before entering, I sensed that no enlightenment would result from the interaction. But I made the attempt.

The woman staffer looked puzzled when I inquired about Medicare counseling. “Medicaid?” she asked. “Do you need Medicaid help?”

“Medicare,” I replied. “I have been disabled for two years and have just received my card and packet from Social Security. The Geauga County Department on Again could not help me and suggested that I visit you.”

She was nearly speechless. “Umm, here is a number for a supervisor. Go to the phone over on that far wall and dial her extension.”

I followed the instructions. After making my request, there was silence on the line.

“Medicaid? You need to apply for Medicaid?” a voice chirped in my ear.

“Medicare,” I said again. “Could you provide some advice on navigating the Medicare system? The Geauga County Department on Aging sent me here today.”

There was another silent pause. “I am sorry, sir. We only handle Medicaid. I do not know why they sent you to us...”

My face went red. “No problem. I thought that might be the case. But, thank you anyway!”

The azure blue had deepened with contrast when I walked back outside. At least I had accomplished one of my tasks for the day. At home, a painting project awaited. One that would have my debilitated knees and hip howling for relief. While I soothed my hypertension with water and rest. Yet I looked forward to getting things done and enjoying the rest of my day.

The adventure had provided a golden opportunity - to celebrate being alive.

Comments about ‘Words on the Loose’ may be sent to: icewritesforyou@gmail.com

Write us at: P. O. Box 365 Chardon, OH 44024

“Twitter Test”

c. 2019 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(6-19)

Automatic.

I have sometimes observed in print that the best newspaper columns seem to create themselves. Almost like an episode of inspired writing by the late seer Edgar Cayce. An example of this phenomenon appeared recently, as I scrolled through entries on my Twitter account feed. There amid comments about sports, beer, music and radio expat Phil Hendrie, was an unfamiliar reference. Delivered by Liz C, wife of local broadcast hero Ken Carman of 92.3 The Fan.

Her post mentioned taking an ‘Enneagram’ test, and the resulting personality profile.

I was in the midst of a late breakfast, with ESPN ‘First Take’ on my Roku. But the cryptic mention of this study-tool stalled my daily routine. I searched for results on Google, discovering quickly that her comment would open a new window into a bit of self-discovery over my fried potatoes and eggs:

“The Enneagram of Personality or simply the Enneagram (from the Greek words ennea meaning nine and gramma meaning written or drawn) is a model of the human psyche which is principally understood and taught as a typology of nine interconnected personality types.”

Steven A. Smith was busy analyzing the NBA finals for his national audience. But my attention-stream had been diverted. Over a forkful of fried burrito, I read about a progression from the mystic Evagrius Ponticus, in the 4^th Century, to Claudio Naranjo of Chile, who taught about the Enneagram in California during the early 1970’s. The story itself was intriguing. But I decided to avoid getting lost in the history of this methodology for understanding. My thoughts were focused on personality surveys I had taken in job interviews over the years. They often left me puzzled and sour. But this new model seemed likely to be useful and direct. I read more about the concept, with images of Steph Curry still flashing from the television screen:

“The Enneagram Figure is usually composed of three parts, a circle, an inner triangle (connecting 3-6-9) and an irregular hexagonal ‘periodic figure’ (connecting 1-4-2-8-5-7). According to esoteric spiritual traditions, the circle symbolizes unity, the inner triangle symbolizes the ‘law of three’ and the hexagon represents the ‘law of seven’ (because 1-4-2-8-5-7-1 is the repeating decimal created by dividing one by seven in base 10 arithmetic).”

I logged off Twitter, and mentally muted the ESPN broadcast from my consciousness. After another minute searching for clues, I located a mobile version of the basic test. Though it required a few minutes to complete, my patience remained intact. I put aside the breakfast plate and readied myself. Instructions warned that the results would only be accurate with honest introspection on the part of a subject. I tried to open my mind for genuine analysis.

Echoes of a job interview with P & C Foods in 1978 reverberated through my skull. An experience while I lived in New York. It had been my first encounter with any such intrusive sort of questionnaire. A session with pencil-and-paper in the stockroom of that Empire State supermarket. I felt pangs of dread in the pit of my stomach. Yet took comfort in the thought of a quick trip to greater awareness.

Responses were divided into three – yes, no, and partly. As a diplomat by nature, a large number of my answers were predictably scored as the latter. Something which made me feel embarrassment. Reflective of habits taught by my father. To carefully consider all views, while holding fast to personal convictions. It had steeped me in the enduring medium of philosophical balance. Libertarian, quietly dissident, not given to the high-decibel protestations of Donald Trump, Michael Avenatti, or Alex Jones. Yet curious always for stories outside of the mainstream. Oddly satisfied to be a spectator-of-the-bizarre, and a scribe.

I completed the survey as Max Kellerman was in the midst of an eye-roll and self-aggrandizing bit of condescension toward his co-hosts. Normally, the show would provide an amusing backdrop for my blue-collar meal and coffee. But I had reached the moment of unmasking. With a twinge of angst, I clicked for the results of my test:

“Enneagram Type 5 – The Investigator. Thinkers who tend to withdraw and observe. People of this personality type essentially fear that they don’t have enough inner strength to face life, so they tend to withdraw, to retreat into the safety and security of the mind where they can mentally prepare for their emergence into the world. Fives feel comfortable at home and in the realm of thought. They are generally intelligent, well read and thoughtful and they frequently become experts in the areas that capture their interest… it is not at all uncommon for Fives to have artistic inclinations.”

I had to ponder for a moment. The assessment seemed fair, if a bit too close to the bullseye. My own areas of mastery included hammering out compositions for my online series of columns. Usually based on random encounters in the first person, or on the happenstance of cyberspace connections. My preferred vantage point was from a distance great enough to provide a competent overview, yet close enough to allow careful interaction. Involved as a seeker, but unattached.

But a fear of lacking inner strength? Stockpiling Doritos, beer, sports merchandise and story ideas had always provided the energy I needed to navigate through life. I felt sturdy enough to be myself.

While the Enneagram did not bring sparkling rays of new enlightenment, it confirmed my long-held image of self. I felt content with the results. And satisfied most of all with another prose project birthed by this unexpected encounter through my cellphone.

Cheers to @lizzy297!

Comments about ‘Words on the Loose’ may be sent to: icewritesforyou@gmail.com

Write us at: P. O. Box 365 Chardon, OH 44024

“Eight Star”

c. 2019 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(6-19)

Evening.

Alcohol is the currency of value in Slatka’s Mobile Retreat, on Stone Creek Road. A jewel of prefab communities in northern Ohio. Little else can be said to have any genuine worth here, except for the occasional $500 car, or lawn mower in good working order. But cigarettes and drink hold their own among my neighbors. A pack of Marlboro Reds or case of Bud Light may trade hands over work performed or a debt owed and in need of payment. Such goods are the gold of common folk. Struggling, downtrodden, retired, or disabled.

My own condition is the last of those, a status I reached 33 months ago.

While continuing to pursue my career as a retail business manager, there was always some hope of leaving Slatka’s for a fixed residence with greater social standing. Something I had enjoyed in my past life, before divorce, times two. But as debilitated joints, arthritis, chronic hypertension and fading vision began to overwhelm my resolve, that flickering light was snuffed out, forever. Grieving, I stumbled forward into a new era of self. One where at the age of 55, I suddenly had to learn the habits of a citizen in his 70’s.

My progression through denial, anger, frustration, and angst, to sheer acceptance, took about two years. Survival skills learned from my first wife were invaluable. I used old strategies to keep up-to-date on the bills despite having no income other than disability compensation.

I once considered myself an oddity in this mobile village. But with time and failure came a realization that brought revival to my spirit. I was no longer out of place among strangers. These broken and humbled souls, sputtering along through life, were now peers of a sort. Differing in experience and philosophy perhaps, but bonded through need. United in the quest once named on a vintage t-shirt. “Just gettin’ through the day.”

I pondered such things at a recent yard meeting of our social group, informally tagged as ‘Friends of Tater.’ Our past-and-present chieftain held office as the senior park resident, though now officially an expatriate. Living by the river in another township. But no less a spiritual hero of our tribe.

We were sharing stories of life before the great foreclosure. Before the mobile community fell into disrepair, bank stewardship, and an eventual sale to a group of investors from the west coast. As secretary and treasurer, Reba Mae passed out fresh bottles of light beer, Tater noticed that a passing car, boasting black paint and road dust, had circled the neighborhood and returned. It bore the nameplate of a Korean manufacturer, something that would have been unthinkable when he first entered the park, around 25 years before. Yet in the doldrums of post-collapse realities, something sadly appropriate.

As we looked up from our beverage cans, a new soul joined the group. A handled cooler swung by his side. “I’ve been meanin’ to stop,” he said. “I see you people out here every week...”

I did not recognize the wizened fellow. He was gray of hair and grayer still with untanned flesh. But he wore a black t-shirt like my own. Only Tater seemed to recognize him from past experience.

“They call me Dopey,” he laughed. “I grew up in this park. I’m at lot 173.”

Tater signified his approval. “I remember you. Over on the first street with your parents. A damn rowdy kid when I first came to Slatka’s.”

Dopey laughed with bouncing ears and a wide grin. He seemed artificially good-natured and relaxed. When he reached for the cooler, I discovered why. “Anybody want a drink?” From deep in the chest, he produced a two-liter of Coke and a bottle of Beam’s Eight Star liquor. “I also got cans of Bud Light and… Yuengling.”

My eyebrows raised instinctively. Full-strength beer was a rarity at the park. He held out a can which I received with gratitude. A cool prize, grasped gingerly before the first taste. But my gaze remained fixed on the bottle of Beam. Already two-thirds empty. A bottom-shelf blend, dirty and colored like instant iced tea in a glass. Something I had seen gathering dust at one of my supermarkets. The sort of drink bought only by folks who counted out loose change at our liquor window. Busted and bruised by life. Looking for liquid escape.

Dopey began to recount his personal tale, with gusto. But my attention faltered. I cradled my iPhone in one hand and began to search. The results were both intriguing and fearful.

BEAM’S EIGHT STAR (Wikipedia) - “A blended whiskey produced in Clermont, and Frankfort, Kentucky, by Beam Suntory, a subsidiary of Suntory Holdings of Osaka, Japan, which is headquartered in Deerfield, Illinois… an 80 proof mixture of 75% neutral grain spirits and 25% straight whiskey. It is inexpensive due to its high proportion of neutral spirits… (which) do not have to be aged like straight whiskey and can be mass-produced at a much faster rate.”

I began to shudder. Silently, I gave thanks for my container of Yuengling. Then, I kept reading.

EIGHT STAR REVIEW (The Whiskey Jug) - “Nose – Grits before cooking, sourness, boiled peanuts, rubbing alcohol and a new sponge. This is not a delicate dainty thing; its an ugly beast. Palate – Everclear mixed with 7-Up, dried corn, dried wood and an overall essence of rubbing alcohol. It tastes like rubbing alcohol smells… Finish – Short burst of dry toothpicks… just say no to the Beam’s Eight Star, unless you’re mixing it with Coke. It might work in that… or it might ruin your Coke… its likely to ruin your Coke. Cheers?”

Only one brave neighbor, another expat from the mobile community, stepped forward for the bottle. Fawn was tanned and toned, like a California model. Dressed in pink mesh and colorful leggings. Yet no more gifted financially than the rest of us sitting in the yard. She had already slipped deep into a funk of inebriation, and wildly took a hit from the gold-labeled decanter. Otherwise, Dopey was left to imbibe on his own.

Tater had stopped talking. When our long-legged friend decided to leave, he followed in short order. Then, Reba Mae excused herself for a bathroom break.

Now, I was alone on the vacant concrete, with my unfamiliar neighbor and his cooler.

The Yuengling can had gone empty. My stomach growled for something more substantial than a liquid meal. I visualized pork chops frying in my cast-iron skillet. Without warning, the black Kia returned. It was Dopey’s son on a familial errand of mercy.

“Dad,” he said patiently, “I’m here to get you home.”

The Eight Star had nearly evaporated. I stood up with a groan, reached for my cane, and stretched out my hand in a gesture of thanks. He had already begun to pack the cooler.

“Thank you,” I whispered. “Take it easy, neighbor.”

The last dribble of Beam would have to suffice for his ride up the street, to trailer 173. He bowed with grace and took a seat in the Korean car. A quick wave ended our conversation. The air had turned unseasonably cold for June. I zipped up my hoodie and pondered the stars before walking across the yard to my own trailer. Gratitude for life, for endurance, and for avoiding the chemical blend from Clermont kept me warm.

Another night at Slatka’s Mobile Retreat had ended.

Comments about ‘Words on the Loose’ may be sent to: icewritesforyou@gmail.com

Write us at: P. O. Box 365 Chardon, OH 44024