beginning of the end (job number 45)
The owner summoned me for a meeting at the head office, near Olympia. I didn’t know what to expect. I knew that the figures had been good. I also knew that the owner, a sturdy North American with a brazen ‘tash and an awkward manner, didn’t particularly like me.
The meeting was in the morning. The owner’s ‘advisor’ was there, an angular woman who would be kind one minute and vicious the next. She would descend on the shops, children in tow, and have staff rearranging them at a moment’s notice. Her visits were dreaded slightly more than the owner’s for their unpredictability, her pleasantness as unwelcome as her criticism.
The two svengalis of the shoe world sat me down on an uncomfortable bench. They offered neither tea nor coffee. They asked me how I thought it was going. I gave an upbeat assessment of my first few months in charge. Takings up. Shop looking tidier. Staff approachable and reliable.
They let me talk for a while, and then interrupted. I don’t know what it's like to be wounded and bloody out on the plains of the Serengeti, watching the hyenas circle before they approach and gleefully tear strips off your flesh. I suspect this experience is about as close as I’ll ever get.
Every detail of my stewardship of their shop was raked over. Every discount I’d ever given. Every time they’d driven past the shop, unseen, and spotted a member of staff yawning. Every layer of dust their spot checks had revealed, even down in the stockroom. Every faulty pair of shoes I’d replaced for a disaffected customer. The music I allowed the staff to play. The list of my crimes was endless.
However, more than this list, was the manner of its telling. I had been tried, judged, and lined up for execution. This was my final reprieve. Their intention was more than to merely tear up my pride, they wanted to break my psyche and assert their absolute dominance.
I sat there, shell-shocked. I had been working hard. Doing a good job. Takings were up. They were wealthier as a result of my labours. On several occasions I had been exposed to the risk of Sloane violence, defending their near-indefensible returns policy. Expecting some kind of appreciation I had been given the opposite.
It was a fine enough day. I did not hurry back to the shop in the King’s Road. I dawdled, unable to quite believe the chasm that could be constructed between individuals sharing (apparently) the same goals. In this case nothing more complex than to sell as many earth-friendly shoes as possible.
I never worked as hard for them again.
The meeting was in the morning. The owner’s ‘advisor’ was there, an angular woman who would be kind one minute and vicious the next. She would descend on the shops, children in tow, and have staff rearranging them at a moment’s notice. Her visits were dreaded slightly more than the owner’s for their unpredictability, her pleasantness as unwelcome as her criticism.
The two svengalis of the shoe world sat me down on an uncomfortable bench. They offered neither tea nor coffee. They asked me how I thought it was going. I gave an upbeat assessment of my first few months in charge. Takings up. Shop looking tidier. Staff approachable and reliable.
They let me talk for a while, and then interrupted. I don’t know what it's like to be wounded and bloody out on the plains of the Serengeti, watching the hyenas circle before they approach and gleefully tear strips off your flesh. I suspect this experience is about as close as I’ll ever get.
Every detail of my stewardship of their shop was raked over. Every discount I’d ever given. Every time they’d driven past the shop, unseen, and spotted a member of staff yawning. Every layer of dust their spot checks had revealed, even down in the stockroom. Every faulty pair of shoes I’d replaced for a disaffected customer. The music I allowed the staff to play. The list of my crimes was endless.
However, more than this list, was the manner of its telling. I had been tried, judged, and lined up for execution. This was my final reprieve. Their intention was more than to merely tear up my pride, they wanted to break my psyche and assert their absolute dominance.
I sat there, shell-shocked. I had been working hard. Doing a good job. Takings were up. They were wealthier as a result of my labours. On several occasions I had been exposed to the risk of Sloane violence, defending their near-indefensible returns policy. Expecting some kind of appreciation I had been given the opposite.
It was a fine enough day. I did not hurry back to the shop in the King’s Road. I dawdled, unable to quite believe the chasm that could be constructed between individuals sharing (apparently) the same goals. In this case nothing more complex than to sell as many earth-friendly shoes as possible.
I never worked as hard for them again.
posted by maldoror at 1:19 p. m.
2 Comments:
I'll never look at my birkenstocks in the same light again.
where there's muck there's brass (or the other way round)
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