I see it. I am on a path toward it. Nothing will deter me now. With arms shaking under a load of acrylics and wool knits, I look straight ahead and imagine myself there-at the red and orange clothing rack across the room. The obstacles ahead present a challenge: meandering customers with wandering eyes, glancing at the shiny white walls in search of the perfect evening ensemble, a smart suit or a sales associate to assist them with their shopping needs. A customer spots me, presenting a logistical challenge. According to company rules, I am supposed to stop all I am doing when approached, but have not been told what to do with the task at hand. I must decide whether to return the clothes to the fitting room, carry them with me as I find a size or ignore the shopper altogether and go on with my “rack running.” It is another busy afternoon at Zara, the latest trendy Euro-chic, designer knock-off retail house on Wisconsin Ave.
I entered the store earlier wearing my civilian garb, not yet suited up in tight black Zara pants and pinstriped oxford. I was smiling inside, knowing that as of yet, I appeared to be just another shopper going upstairs to the fitting rooms. Once there, however, I would sneak through a door to the locker room, a place to seek comfort in a chair and glass of cold water. The locker room “lounge,” with microwave oven and mini-fridge, is the one place I can chat with my coworkers, women from all over the world.
On my first day of work the manager told me that she had scheduled me for 30 hours for my first week. Despite the fact that that would be 10 hours short of being a full-time job, I still agreed, yet realized after going to class for four hours, then working for another eight, that 30 would not be possible. While my fellow sales associates return home at 11pm, have a beer and go to sleep, I eat dinner then go to the library to begin my school work.
Reality hits and I know it is time to punch in and sign the next eight hours of my life away. Assigned to the “floor,” I put on my Zara smile and greet the first customers I see walking through the door with a “Hello, how are you?” in a loud, friendly tone. Not exactly sure what I am supposed to be doing, I simply fold, tidy and greet.
Standing in uniform, I appear ready to meet any retail challenge. An attractive young man approaches and I greet him. He tells me that his girlfriend is a size two and extra small. He wants to know if Zara carries those sizes, because he cannot find anything on the floor. Internally, I reason through the problem: the sizes may be out of stock, or we may not make them at all. Not knowing which is the better answer, I combine them, responding assuredly, “We make some items in those sizes, but they are not all in stock.”
As my day goes on, I learn that people do not want to hear the word “No.” There is always an alternative, and it is my job to provide it. Whether tit means bringing up another size or color from the back stock or writing down a name for a request, I must do everything in my power to make shopping at Zara a pleasant experience. The small joy of making others materially happy is surprising; when I found a size in the back for a woman lusting after a striped blazer, she told me with wide-eyed earnestness, “I LOVE you.” When your feet are aching, your back hurting and your throat is dry from dehydration and inhaled cotton fibers, on a Wednesday afternoon a proclamation of love can be surprisingly fulfilling.
By 10 p.m., after I have climbed the equivalent of a quarter of a mile in stairs, it is the little things that bother me. All my thoughts are drowned out by the blasting Euro-dance music. The fateful chorus of a certain song comes on for the tenth time in three hours: the singer croons, “shut up, just shut up, shut up … shut up, just shut up, shut up.” Meanwhile, trying to clean up a little before closing so I can avoid staying until 11:30 p.m., I begin to fold the table of sweaters. These sweaters, part of the Zara Woman line, are a soft wool blend and come in two styles and eight colors. The sweaters deserve the best, and that means folding them with a sheet of crisp white tissue paper inside. I begin to take pleasure in the aesthetic quality of the finished arrangement. The idea of “finished” is deceptive however; after leaving my stacks for a moment to search for a size, I return to find vultures in Diesel and Gucci snatching up my sweaters, paper fluttering to the floor, trying each color as if the colors make the styles different. They carelessly bundle each one up and toss it in the general vicinity of the others leaving me with another mess to clean up.
At the end of the day though, after all folds have been arranged, when the racks have been sized and back stock has been returned, there is a certain exhausted pleasure I get from looking around the pristine store. A sick fantasy of running through the racks with my arms out, knocking the clothes out of alignment crosses my mind, but it is only a passing thought. I step out of the door, get my bag routinely checked for theft, and feel the rush of the fresh spring evening air. Walking home, done for the day, I prepare to start the Spanish composition that is due in twelve hours.
Lauren Gaskill is a first-year in the College. She’d rather be floating high above the world than working in retail.
