“You have to promise me that you won’t get six more earrings, an eyebrow ring or anything like that,” the store manager of the f.y.e. chain music store at my local mall said as she was about to hire me for the summer.
“Sure,” I said smiling, picturing Ozzy Osbourne’s gratuitously tattooed forearms. “Not a problem.”
My first few days in the music store were spent not with customers, but in the back with the manager memorizing the “W.I.N.S.?Welcome, Inform, Note, Suggest” training program that ostensibly qualified me as being able to sell music. I half-expected there to be quizzes on how to spell Del tha Funkee Homosapien and Jamiroquai or at least a short biography of Bob Dylan. I was disappointed.
“Every customer must be welcomed within the first minute of walking into the store,” the manager told me. “Every customer should be made aware of our $9.99 CD sale. Also, we don’t really sell singles anymore, so if people ask for them make sure you push the NOW and Totally Hits music collections. Oh, and make sure you smile.”
After a week, I was ready to hit the sales floor. A teenage customer walked in and I zipped toward her. “Hi, ma’am, how are you doing today?” I asked with a smile.
“Fine,” the girl replied.
“Is there anything I can help you with today,”
“Yeah ? I heard this song on the radio, but I don’t know who it’s by or what the title is.”
“Err ? OK ? “
“Let me sing it for you. It goes: ‘Why you something, something always complicaaaated ? ’” she shrieks.
“I think that’s Avril Lavigne,” I said, half-smiling, and grabbed the CD for her.
I thought the singing was a rare occurrence, but I learned quickly. I would get a singer at least three times a day until I began to learn how to cut them off.
“I heard this song on the radio, but I don’t know who it’s by or what the title is,” a teenage customer would say to me. “Do you want me to sing it?”
“No,” I would say quickly. “Is the singer a young, white girl?”
“Yeah.”
“Well then it’s either Michelle Branch, Avril Lavigne or Vanessa Carlton.” I grabbed the CDs for them and found the one they wanted.
By June, I was a pro. A middle-aged woman walked in and approaches me: “I’m looking for this new classical singer, but I don’t know his name.”
“Josh Groban?”
“Yeah, how’d you know?”
I smiled.
A 20-something guy walks in: “I’m looking for this white dude who sings some jazz?”
“Did you hear it on the radio?”
“Yes.”
“Remy Shand?”
“Yeah, how’d you know?”
I smiled.
A 30-year old woman walks in: “I’m looking for this guy who sings a song with Gwen Stefani. I think his name starts with a D.”
“Moby?”
“Yeah, how’d you know?”
I smiled.
However, there were still some customers that completely frustrated me. I labeled them the “punk kids” cause they were all dressed in black and always wanted punk music.
“Dude, I’m looking for some Squirrel Monkey Nut Zipper Noodle CDs, do you have any?” a 15-year-old kid with a wallet chain asked me.
“Err ? let me check the computer.”
I smiled.
One day in mid-July a punky-looking kid walked up to me. I feared the worst.
“Dude, I’m looking for The Clash and Rakim. Can you help me?”
“My man,” I said smiling.
Liam Dillon is a sophomore in the College and sports editor of The Georgetown Voice. If you ask him he’ll show you his six other earrings.
