Disaster Zone

Everyday that I walk into work, I am amazed that the place functions as well as it does. If only the average joe knew how much of a disaster zone the place is. Between the constant miscommunication, absence of training, lack of organization, the place reminds me of a town without infrastructure, where the inhabitants exist in a free-for-all state of mind. Like I previously said, "the fake it til you make it" environment.

Yesterday, I arrived at work expecting another day of straightening shoes. And that's what I did for a while. Until the TRUCK arrived. For those of you without retail experience, stores are constantly receiving new merchandise. And when this new merchandise arrives workers must take it out of the boxes and sort it. I was on TRUCK duty yesterday. Having only previously helped unload a truck once before, my experience was slim; however, this did not deter my fellow workers from becoming angry with me (and another new worker) when I failed to follow rules that had never been explained to me. Typical Marshalls.

"Department 72 boxes go over here," Angry Truck Worker shouted.

"Okay," I said feebly. Hearing her say "72" scared the shit out of me; did that mean there were 71 other departments that had special places for boxes? But I couldn't ask any questions as more boxes were rolling past on the conveyer belt and I really felt like a factory worker. So depressing.

A few minutes pass; I am putting the perfume where the perfume goes, socks where socks go, etc. The problem is that I'm only allowed to inspect items within boxes that had been opened prior to rolling up the conveyer belt. Why? I don't know. A co-worker who can barely speak English informs me that I am not to open any unopened boxes. Okay, I wont. But wait, what about department 72? I guess I can move those boxes, right? As long as I don't open them, correct? I try to ask the non-english speaker this question, but she just smiles and nods her head. Ugh. No help. I can't turn to Angry Truck Worker because she's down at the other end of the conveyer belt. I continue on my way. Doing what I'm supposed to be doing. Or at least faking it.

"Department 53 goes over here!" Angry Truck Worker yells from the end of the conveyer belt.

"Okay," I say. Pause. I think to myself: this angry co-worker is treating me as if this knowledge is supposed to be innate, as if a newborn knows that department 53 gets set next to the box of Women's purses. I guess I was born without that knowledge. What's the deal Mom and Dad?

"Is there like a list or something of all the department numbers? Because I don't have them memorized. I'm still learning. I don't really know what I'm doing," I proclaim.

"They didn't give you a list of the departments?" Angry Truck Worker asks. I shake my head. "Okay, I'll go get you the list." She fetches me a piece of paper that lists the departments; I recognize it as it came with the rest of worker materials that I was given on the first day of work. Pretty sure I threw all that shit away. Oops. Oh well. More time goes by and Angry Truck Worker is under the impression that because she gave me the list that I will somehow learn the entire catalogue of departments through osmosis. Sadly, I don't have that capability. Just as she was about to yell the misplacement of another department, I got radioed that it's time for me to cover the Fitting Room. Saved by the bell.