Holy
crap in a Bundt pan...
Due to the
recent well-publicized shortage of
amateur websites produced by assholes who consider themselves to be
clever, I
have been called into action. My name is Jeff Kay, and I’m an
Ugly American living
on the cusp of a mid-life crisis, near Scranton, PA. And I’m here to
serve, baby.
The
State of My Fat Ass A journal of
sorts, updated every once in a while.
--The job I interviewed for yesterday is called Inventory Manager,
which is a fancy way of saying Buyer.I
have quite a bit of experience with that sort of thing, and tried to
have my history all mapped-out and organized inside my head, in
anticipation of the grilling I was sure to receive.
And during this preparation process I remembered my first exposure to
the thankless world of buying, way back during the
Greensboro
days.
I’d gone on a ridiculous “job-hunting” trip to
North Carolina
, with a gang of drunken, pure-bred rednecks who were my co-workers at a
West Virginia
convenience store at the time.I
say “job-hunting” because that was my genuine reason for going.The other guys?Not
so much.
No, they just drank beer, smoked dope, and raised hell.
We stopped at a roadside general store in
Virginia
somewhere, and my colleagues
shoplifted as much stuff as they could carry.Stupid crap, like paperweights.Why?!And we were
almost arrested for throwing lighted firecrackers from the windows of
our car – while driving through a tunnel on the interstate.
The motel room where we slept was completely trashed when we checked
out, like something out of Hammer
of the Gods.I remember
an inexplicable cardboard box full of water(?) sitting in the middle of
the floor, only minutes away from bursting open.I’m not sure of its origin...There were big burn-holes in the carpet where they’d set off
fireworks (inside our room!), and somebody tried to flush a pillow down
the toilet, leading to predictable results.
The police were called on us at a Roy Rogers roast beef restaurant.The manager came over and tried to make us quiet down, and was
sporting a full-on cowboy hat.Man,
I didn’t think the ridicule would ever stop….They had that poor bastard on the verge of tears, and I’m
pretty certain I was the only one in our party who felt sorry for him.
He finally called the authorities when somebody announced to the whole
restaurant: “Look everyone, it’s Roy Rogers!And HE’S A FAGGOT.”
But anyway… I was going to tell you about buying, wasn’t I?
While on this so-called job-hunting trip, I wandered into a massive
grocery store with the curious name of Food Lion.I talked to the manager, and to my surprise he offered me a job
on the spot.
This never happened in West Virginia.Jobs there were few and
far between, and when you were lucky enough to find one, you could count
on being paid the least amount the law allowed.But this guy said he’d start me out at something like $6.80 an
hour.To my ears he’d said
$10,000 an hour.I simply
couldn’t believe it.
So I went home and packed my clothes, and within days your humble
correspondent was a highly-compensated stocker at Food Lion – in the
exotic land
of North Carolina.
We worked overnight, while the store was closed.Each of us was assigned an aisle, and mine was the “cleaning”
aisle.It was where the
laundry detergent was located, and dishwashing soap, and that sort of
thing.Actual food aisles
were reserved for seasoned veterans, I learned, and I was a newbie.So they stuck me with the soap.
Your aisle was your baby; it was your ongoing project, your
responsibility.We had to
keep them clean, organized, and fully-stocked.I vowed to have the best-looking aisle the company had ever seen.
I’d be working canned meats in no time, dammit!
But the buying did me in.
One of the main responsibilities was to place weekly orders for the
products in your section.I
had no experience with it, and screwed up regularly.During the first couple of months there were big holes in my
shelves, where stuff had sold-out.The
managers were not amused, and open-face threats were sent my way.
Eventually, of course, I got the hang of it.But there was one item that continued to be a thorn in my side:bleach.Even today my
stomach tightens a little whenever I see a bottle of Clorox, or
whatever.Have you ever had
nightmares, scary-ass nightmares about bleach?Well, I have.
They came six to a carton, you see, and the cartons were HUGE.So, if I brought in too much, it would completely fill the back
room, and the grocery manager (who looked and acted like Sgt. Carter),
would give me a raft of shit about it.But if I brought in too little, and it sold-out, the store
manager would be up my ass, way way up my ass.
There was simply no winning with the bleach.I remember being in the store on a Saturday around
noon, and every bottle of Clorox was gone.I was certain I’d be fired, and it ruined my entire weekend.Luckily, they only yelled at me that
time, but I was clearly trudging on thin ice.
And I never mastered it, I’m sorry to report.It got the better of me.I
allowed Frank Sutton to intimidate me into being too conservative with
my bleach purchases, and the store continued to run-out on weekends.
When it came time for my six-month review they told me I’d better get
my shit together, and everything shut-down.I stopped showing up for work on a regular basis, and went
looking for another job.My
canned meat dreams were crushed beneath the weight of a giant Clorox
bottle.
For a while I was bitter and angry, and walked around thinking, “Who
buys bleach, anyway?What is this, 1947?!”I
was trying to shift the blame, like the immature dumbass I was, but it
didn’t work.Deep down, I
knew the truth.
It was a horrible experience, and I will never allow it to happen again.Never!But it taught
me a lot about inventory management, a job requirement that’s somehow
followed me through my entire adult life.
And that is:You must have
enough, but not too much.How
you accomplish that is your problem, Jimmy.Oh, and we’ll only notice you when something goes wrong.The rest of the time, you’re invisible.Have a nice day.
I can’t wait to get back to it!
--Before I call it a day
here, I’m going to link to Brad again.Because I updated extra- late yesterday, and think this week’s
installment is especially good.
And I’m going to alert you to a list of the world’s gayest
cars,
which, of course, features the one I drive. <sigh>
And I’m gonna show you a current photo of the baby from the cover of Nevermind
once more.
And share with you some news about My
So-Called Life.
And, finally, briefly re-tell my favorite Food Lion story:
One night we were having “lunch” at 2 am, or whatever, and sitting around, as usual, on the checkout stands in
the front of the store.Someone
was flipping through a Weekly
World News (I think), and found a picture of a guy whose body
stopped below the ribcage.The
dude was just a head, chest, and arms.
There were a few predictable jokes made, and I thought the conversation
had ended.I wandered away
to the deli to use the microwave, and was surprised to encounter a
heated argument about the photograph when I returned.
And that’s when I heard a grown man actually shout the following
phrase:“No, no, no,
that’s wrong!A
motherfucker can’t shit if he ain’t got no ass!!”
--
The job I interviewed for yesterday is called Inventory Manager,
which is a fancy way of saying Buyer. I
have quite a bit of experience with that sort of thing, and tried to
have my history all mapped-out and organized inside my head, in
anticipation of the grilling I was sure to receive.
