The Warehouse Store

The lights used to buzz above my head in the morning, they buzzed, even when everyone else claimed it was a ringing inside of my head. I could pin point exactly which light was buzzing, I would walk around until the sound rang perfectly clear, I would look up, and there was the florescent, blinking at me like it was about to burn out.  Occasionally I would stare at them until they did seem to through in the towel and go black. It was peaceful then, when you could hear the hum of the building as it geared up for its day.

The concrete had rolls and dips in it to, but I didn’t mind that so much, it made walking into the fitting rooms with an arm full of clothing all the more adventurous. Carful there is a di-…..and splat!! Another one bites the dust….customers would always fall down. Eventually they put up a wet floor sign, which we all forgot wasn’t a permanent fixture until there was, another bathroom flood, a coffee-spill, or a sick child threw up in the children’s section of the store, and the cone like sign had to be re-located temporarily.

Those were the fun days, where we were so busy we could have forgotten our own names, as anxious Christmas shoppers literally fought each other over OLD NAVY branded fleece or clearance priced Shirts and basics marked down to just a few dollars, all the while having to warm every single person entering the fitting rooms, or “fits” for short, about the dip in the floor. I was the ‘Service Driver” the one who called all the shots, well at least in my little cave that was “fits” sheltered away from the rest of the store.

I put every customer in a fitting room, new them by name, checked on them, got sizes, built them outfits based on one or two or twenty-five articles they brought into the fitting room with them. I got so good at it, I could tell if something was going to fit before they asked for the item in a different size and had one in the appropriate size waiting. Even when they didn’t ask, sometimes I could coax them to try their best size and was always delighted to how grateful people were when their clothing just worked.

Mothers with wee one got my best baby-sitting service, and one even proclaimed I was the “baby-whisperer” as I cooed her screaming child into a deep sleep, all the while calling for my runner to bring her tunic dress in a 6 short. My eye for shape, cut, style and size extended beyond conscious thought, it had become truly intuitive.

The top 40 music tracks that played over and over, that other staff used to complain about always faded away, the rhythm of the “fits” took shape as soon as we opened the doors in the morning. Excited shoppers on missions would come in with piles and piles of clothes stacked on their arms like they were salvaging them from their burning homes. Busy workers ran in on their lunch breaks, checking their watches and sighing, teenagers and working parents came in after school let out to search for school basic, or gym clothes.

The pace didn’t calm down until the early evening when I once again became aware of the sound of the oldest florescence as they audibly chirped and popped above my head, as if to proclaim they too had put in a long day of lighting up the warehouse-style retail super store.