Magazine Drive 2

The magazine drive lasted a few weeks and the school kept a tally of the money raised. As more and more magazines were ordered, we as a school, moved closer to our goal. It was an exciting time even if I only contributed two subscriptions. In the back of my mind I had convinced myself that I had sold more and was going to receive one of the many lovely prizes. In truth, I would be most likely be awarded a sticker while others swam in the plethora of their winnings. Then the day finally arrived, P day I’ll call it, well prize day.

Just as we had in the beginning, all of the students in the school lined up outside their classrooms and headed to the gymnasium. And just like last time, the prizes lined the stage. Every kid seemed giddy, mostly because they had also convinced themselves that the gigantic, beautiful, battery driven prizes would accompany them home.

The reality of the situation was that a few lucky sons-of-guns would get the big prizes. Not many students were savvy enough to sell fifty magazine subscriptions. Actually, no students were that savvy, but some students had competitive parents who did the work for them. This is where I began to get pissed off.

This drive had nothing to do with the student’s effort it was the parents who were the ultimate target. The school needed money to fund their special programs and the parents were the people who could bring in the money. The school used students to get what they needed. Why not just say, “Hey parents, we have some great programs that need funding, how about donating some money?” Instead the school went about things in a back door fashion saying, “Hey kids, if your parents care for you at all, they will help you sell magazines or do it themselves just so you can have some stupid toy.” There it was my jealous anger coming through again. I would go from loving those prizes to hating them just as quickly.

So here we are in another pep fest, high fiving one another because we, as a school, have reached our goal. Then, the principal and the prize lady spoke again—getting us all riled up. We were one excited bunch of suckers…I mean kids.

Just before crossing that line between “riled up” and “riot,” it would be award time. By awards I mean the students who sold the most subscriptions got to collect their stupid prizes right in front of everyone. It’s just one more way to rub all of our noses in their glory. Their stupid, parent-purchased glory.

The largest prizes were ranked in multiples of ten. First, every student who sold ten subscriptions was called to the stage to collect their toy. Then, the students who sold twenty subscriptions then, thirty subscriptions made their way up to the stage. Keep in mind that if you sold thirty magazines, you collected the prize for ten, twenty and thirty subscriptions making you a three-time winner.

And guess who always got the largest prize; Maggie Spenser. Every year it was Maggie Spenser. I was so sick of hearing her name that it took the rest of the school year for my jealousy to fade.

She thought that she was so special. And really, she was just a girl who had a dad, who brought her order sheet to his work and threatened to fire people if they did not order a subscription. Okay, maybe I am exaggerating about that last part but it sure seemed like it happened that way. Every year we had to watch her stupid, smiling face get every large prize that was awarded. I despised Maggie Spenser…she thought she was so cool.

When the torturous pep fest finally ended and we were directed back into our classrooms, smaller prizes were handed out for students who commissioned less than ten magazines. That was where I was awarded my sticker; my no good, fifty-cent, dumb-ass sticker.

Magazine Drive

Magazine Drive 1986

Age: Twelve

Every year my elementary school (and every other elementary school in the state) promoted some kind of money making scheme. Our school hosted a magazine drive and the money raised went to fund special activities.

Sounds pretty innocent right? Sell a few magazines and the proceeds go to a good cause. Now, I am not against the giving or the raising of money for educational purposes. I am an advocate for education and my graduate degree in the field and years teaching should be proof of that. I just have an issue with the way schools encourage students to get these donations. I have witnessed the practice both as an adult and as a child and things have not seemed to change much in twenty-five years.

I remember the hype as a kid. There were posters on the wall, announcements over the loud speaker, reminders sent home and teachers taking time out of their own schedules to make sure that every kid in school knew this money making scheme was going to happen.

Then there was the pep fest. All students young and younger were to attend the pep fest that introduced the magazine drive. We all lined up outside our classroom and walked single file down the hall into the gymnasium. It was exciting for the students because we got out of class, we got to see our friends from different classrooms and grades and the gym was filled with stuff. I mean good stuff; stuff that every kid in the whole school wanted to wrap their hands around. We all smiled at one another with the same silly looks; looks that said “I understand why you are smiling that silly way, because you want that stuff and you want it now!”

Then the principal grabbed the microphone and welcomed us all to the rally. She was a good principal: she was likeable and really knew how to handle a crowd. She had us laughing and got us excited for the pep fest to begin. She was the warm up act at a comedy club. Very smooth school, very smooth. Then the head of the magazine drive was introduced. By this time we could not stand the anticipation any more. We wanted to hear about the stuff.

The magazine lady was as smooth as our principal. She smiled ear to ear as she began talking about the cool things that students would win by participating in the drive. The items always started out small and grew larger and larger as the demonstration went on. Occasionally, she would ask for a volunteer to come and demonstrate how the items worked.

Every kid in school wanted to get up on that stage including me. Please, please, please call on me I thought as my hand went up to volunteer. But it never happened. Not one time in my elementary career did I ever get to be that volunteer. Each year I hoped, and each year I was disappointed. Then I had to watch as some lucky soul ran up on the stage and demonstrated how a battery operated car worked. Damn that lucky fool. Here I sat, on the cold gymnasium floor, with all the talent and enthusiasm of that kid just waiting to “wow” the school with my foam airplane launching skills. Who does that kid think they are anyway? Anyone can fly a stupid airplane and you would have to be an idiot if you could not work a remote control car.

As the demonstrations continued I fell out of my jealousy and back into my desire to take everything on that stage home with me. I would do anything to have a hula-hoop that lit up, an over-sized gumball machine, a ten-speed bike or a television with a VCR built into it, what technology!

We spent the next half hour with the prize build up and then “the catch.” I even knew about “the catch” but somehow got lost in the demonstration of the stuff every year without fail. The only way to get any of the prizes was to be a salesperson. After all, what elementary school kid is not a salesperson? Aren’t we all born with the innate quality of salesmanship? In order to wind even the smallest prize a student had to sell a number of magazine subscriptions. The bigger the prize the more magazines a kid needed to sell. This is where my depression started to set in.

I knew full well that my parents were not interested in helping me sell magazines. My mom did not believe in sending her small, elementary aged child out into the neighborhood asking people for money. She did not want her friends to feel obligated nor did she think it was safe to approach strangers on the issue. My parents said that they would order a couple of magazines to support education but I could not bother anyone else for money.

Why did I have to have such unreasonable parents? They did not realize what was at stake here. They were not at the pep fest filled with heavenly toys; toys that I had to have to complete me as a human being. I needed that walkie talkie and five foot stuffed bear in order to live. And the only way for me to get any of the good stuff was to sell lots and lots of magazines. That’s what the lady said at the pep fest, sell, sell, sell. I was possessed.

I would literally sit around and daydream about all of those toys. If I could bring the toys to my house I would never get bored again. Then reality would set in and I knew I had to face the fact that my toy dreams would never come true. I would probably get a sticker or some kind of pat on the back for ordering two magazines. What a rip, what a disappointment, what a life.

The Deli 2

Prior to meeting Erin, I loved my job. I would wait on people occasionally and do homework when things were slow. I had regular customers who got to know me as “deli girl” and I was working three days a week, which was perfect for a full-time college student. I even had the luxury of flirting with the beautiful pro-shop guy who worked across from me.

Let me take a deep breath and remember him. Ahhh, he was delicious.

Anyway, Erin changed everything. I started getting stressed out every time I had to work. She did not always stop by, but when she did my blood would boil. I guess I was most shocked by her vulgar language in front of customers. The f-bomb seemed to be her favorite. What was wrong with her?

She could tell that I did not like her and I’m pretty certain that she did not know why or care. All she cared about were her difficult grad school classes, which she complained about every visit, and the crap she had to put up with at work.

My girlfriend Julie was hired a few months after me and managed to tolerate Erin. Julie was actually more annoyed with me than anyone. “You need to confront her on her piss poor attitude or let it go.” Julie had decided not to care about Erin or her “piss poor attitude.” Although, Erin did not call Julie “fucking stupid” the first time she met her so she had no personal reason to despise the woman. I, on the other hand, had every reason to find her intolerable.

Then it happened: The moment that pushed me over the edge. The moment where I decided that working at the deli was becoming an impossible task.

Erin pushed her way into the deli with a full cart of restock items and started tearing open boxes. I’d say that she was in one of her “moods” but this girl had only one mood. I decided to stick to my job and intentionally ignore her. I did not want to get sucked into the negative black hole that she created.

Then, she started having problems getting some cream cheese cups out of the box. She tugged and tugged at the tape that would not budge. Finally part of the box gave way and she began tearing the cardboard. The cuss words were flying out of her mouth and then, suddenly, a cream cheese cup was flying right through the air. And the damn thing hit me. Right on the side of the face.

Now normally, I would think something like that was funny, but not today. Erin had pissed me off so much in the past and that this temper tantrum pushed me over the edge. I shot her a look nobody would want to receive. She smiled, a bit embarrassed by her actions, and then quickly apologized. I was so angry that I did not say a word. My silence first made her feel bad, initially, then, she tightened up—clearly upset that I did not make light of the situation.

Granted, I was not hurt by the cheese cup, but who knows what could have happened? It could have hit me in the open eye—blinding me for life! Okay, maybe that is a bit over-dramatic but who chucks a cheese cup across a room anyway? It’s the workplace, not a softball field. If this had been the first time she threw something or if she didn’t have the worst attitude I had ever seen, I would have laughed it off. But she was not funny and hitting someone was bound to happen the way she exploded every time I saw her.

I did not accept her apology nor did I speak to her. I just kept working and decided at that moment I had had enough. She was impossible to talk to because of her temper and inability to regard others, so I chose to go to the man who hired me. I was not messing around.

My appointment with him occurred soon after the cheese cup incident. I was still hot and ready to vent. He called me into his office and seemed surprised to see me. I was a hard worker with little to complain about until I met Erin. I explained my issue with her and her lack of respect for fellow workers and customers. I went on to say that I was not alone in my complaints. Other workers in the deli just put up with her irrational behavior because she was the manager and they did not want to make trouble.

He listened sincerely to my problem and said that he would note my complaint.

That’s it? That’s all you are going to do?

He looked at me with his eyebrows raised waiting for a question.

“That’s it?” I said aloud.

“Well, yes. Your complaint has been filed and we will look into it if there are anymore issues.”

I could not believe it! I thought that I had a valid complaint, that the management would take me seriously and force a change in Erin’s attitude at the very lease or let go if I got lucky. I wanted change so that the deli workers and customers could reclaim the place they chose to gather. Somebody needed to speak up, somebody had to fight for peace. But, even after a desperate effort to make a change, the managers of our company decided to back the cuss-happy pessimist for reasons I did not understand.

I left the meeting disappointed and pretty pissed off, really. My boss thought more about this girl and her rotten attitude than me and my positive attitude. Yet, even though I was mad, I decided to go back to work and hope that my complaint meant something.

I’d like to say that things improved with Erin, but her awful behavior continued and I ultimately quit a job that I had once loved. Nobody should have to deal with that kind of treatment.

Of course, now that I am older and wiser, I realize that speaking to my manager instead of working things out with Erin, personally, was such a cowardly approach. In retrospect, I should have at least attempted a truce with her before weaseling my way to upper management. I’m guessing that my immaturity with the matter most likely explains why her treatment of me actually got worse instead of better.

Nice life lesson, cranky, foul-mouthed grouch wins over immature, do-gooder, headline at nine.

The Deli

The Deli 1994

Age: Nineteen

            “Are you F#cking Stupid? The ones go here, the fives go here and the tens go here.” These were the first words my manager Erin ever uttered to me at the University of Minnesota Deli. I looked at her with an expression I don’t think existed until that moment. My first thought after “you bitz” was, “Hey, I just got here, walked up to the concession stand and stepped into your wrath.” Who does she think she is anyway? Why is she talking to me like that? And why is she throwing out the f-bomb in front of a busy crowd? She huffed away so quickly that I didn’t have time to catch my breath let alone muster up any kind of rebuttal to her ferocious remarks.

Sophomore year, I worked at a deli on the University of Minnesota Twin Cities campus, which also converted into a concession stand during swim meets. That day, I walked into a swim meet, prepared to assist, not prepared to be humiliated in front of my co-workers and our customers.

Apparently, it had gotten so busy that my co-workers were running around doing three things at once, leaving the cash register a total disaster. Erin decided to blame me for the mess in the most inappropriate way and stunned everyone within earshot.

There was a sea of people in front of me, hungry people. After being publicly scorned, my only move was to help the next customer, fake smile in tow, with my tongue clenched between my teeth.

Normally there were four people who worked separate shifts at the deli during the week and more people were added for swim meets. Erin managed the employee schedule and food orders while she completed grad school and only occasionally blessed the deli with her presence. This is why I had never met her until that day. Man, did she live up to the hype. What a bitch.

I am not one to get mixed up with gossip at the workplace or judge people before I meet them, but Erin had earned herself quite the reputation. I could not find one person at the deli who spoke highly of her. The stories circulating were hard to believe. Nobody could be that bad.

Vern was in her sixties and had worked at the deli for years. She was nice enough, but extremely insecure and cranky. She complained about Erin 90% of the time that we worked together. She complained about Erin’s demeanor, disrespect toward others and that lousy attitude of hers that left people feeling defensive and pissed off. I was hired by Erin’s superior and had the luxury of keeping my distance from her. Until that fateful swim meet.

I would try to help Vern with her troubles by offering solutions that would allow her to tolerate Erin. I am the kind of person who works toward fixing problems not just complaining about them. I suggested that she find something in common with her; maybe a television show or a good book. Vern would just roll her eyes and state, “you don’t know her, she is awful, unreasonable and dealing with her is impossible.”

The complaints did not stop with Vern. The two guys I worked with also could not stand it when Erin dropped by the deli. According to them, she would come in, toss boxes around without acknowledging anyone and bitch the entire time. Then she would continue cussing while opening boxes and throwing shit around. A cup of yogurt here and an apple there would fly through the air because of her impatience. I was too optimistic of a person to believe that she was really that bad. I tried to listen without saying too much because I knew that I should meet her before passing judgment.

Well, I met her and wished that I hadn’t. She was a nightmare. Everything I had heard about her proved to be true. She was rude and unpleasant as she stomped into the deli, dragging her negative energy behind her. The door would fly open and she would complain about anything, big or small, as she forced the restock cart through the doorway.

You could say that my perception of her was biased because our first meeting was so dreadful but believe me, I am not the first person, nor will be the last person to find her character flawed. And my goodness, what makes a person behave in such a manner? Someone who manages people should be a charismatic, likeable person. Otherwise, that person should seek employment elsewhere. Speaking of which, who hired her in the first place? Were they drinking during the interview? Maybe she was attractive on paper and they were desperate to fill the position. Who knows? I finally came to the conclusion that she must have had some sort of connection to the company. I could accept no other theory.