“Ask Me About…”

I am lucky enough to have a job that I genuinely enjoy---one that I have worked hard for. I do know that full-time teaching positions in my field are relatively rare. So before my current job I had many moments of doubt about my career prospects. To be honest, what I was shooting for was, bottom-line, a job where I didn't have to wear a nametag. Security, benefits, salary, vacations, and all of that are wonderful but I didn't want to punch a time clock, wear any sort of uniform, or wear the nametag. (Imagine my delight when the administration decided that name badges were a good thing. And guess who doesn't wear hers). Ultimately, it isn't those things that I object to. There are plenty of dignified jobs that require nametags. Really, any job that you invest in can transcend the nametag. I just tend to associate the nametag with a feeling of powerlessness because most of my experience with them was as basically expendable labor.

So why, when I am in what is pretty much a nametag free job, would I feel a bit nostalgic for them?

Tonight's dinner stop at Culver's is where it began. Adam and I were partway into our "this Monday has sucked" fast food suppers when "James C." (or that is what I'll call him) stopped by our table. He started with the usual inquiry about our meals. Then he asked if we wanted the good news or bad news first. The good news? Apparently James just saved a bunch of money by switching to Geico. Hilarious? Not so much. The bad news was doled out slowly. James pulled up a chair and settled in. Adam said he hoped the bad didn't involve a pressing need for a hepatitis shot. (That was a no). It turns out that James wanted to tell us that the bad news is that there is no bad news. He then stood and chatted a bit more. While he was winding down, a coworker walked past and executed a truly masterful "drive by" apron untying. I almost didn't see him do it.

The conversation was sort of a WTF affair. James must have been bored, stoned, full of himself or something. The whole situation made me remember my nametag days. Sure, most of the jobs ultimately sucked, but there were good times to be had. And sometimes a lack of responsibility has its own allure.


I worked for a short time at Toys-R-Us. In those days the cashiers had to wear these obnoxious orange and white striped jackets or an orange vest with Geoffrey on the back. And a nametag. I remember four things about the job.

1. There were a surprising number of people who thought that it was a good idea to ask a sixteen year old cashier at Toys-R-Us what kind of formula they should be feeding to their baby.
2. Some guy wanted to know if it was okay if he committed "hari kari" in the inflatable pool he was purchasing. I told him only if he kept his receipt. That was enough to get him to stop messing with "the help." And for him to give me his business card.
3. Apparently some children are freaked out by long green (or were they black?) fingernails. Wimps.
4. There was a guy who would spend his breaks watching the scene from "The Blues Brothers" where Jake and Elwood drive through the mall (destroying a Toys-R-Us in the process). He would watch it over and over again. Every shift.



I love the movie "Clerks." I am a Kevin Smith fan, for sure, but I also like the film because I have worked at both a gas station convenience store and a video store. And I may have done some of the same things...

There wasn't much to recommend about the Citgo job. I sat there. I mopped. I stocked cigarettes. Made coffee. Had to deal with the old creeps who seemed to *really* enjoy asking for the porn magazines we kept behind the register. Sold lottery tickets. And wore a name tag.

The video store was pretty cool for a nametag job. Free video rentals were quite a perk for a college student. The ugly red polo shirt uniform (with nametag) was not. Rude customers and endless bouts of shelving and rewinding weren't fun. Checking out the porn movies had its, um, ups and downs. Fielding all the calls for "Long Dong Silver" during the whole Clarence Thomas/Anita Hill deal got to be tiresome. I got a kick out of the people who felt the need to justify it: "It's for a bachelor party. It's for my cousin. I just turned eighteen...I usually just watch foreign films." I didn't like to think about the people who checked one out at noon and returned it twenty minutes later. (If you are wondering about why I keep talking about porn, you haven't watched "Clerks.").

Ultimately what I liked about working at The Video Station (you have to keep the "the." It is like The Ohio State University in that way) was the time killing. We made our Employee Picks works of art. I had themes. I would make some serious picks, but would throw in "Roller Boogie", "Xanadu", and "Can't Stop the Music." My friend, Chris, had tribute shelves to Curtis "Booger" Armstrong and Vincent Schiavelli. We spent a lot of time cutting out the heads of Corey Haim from our special "new releases" magazine. We would then tape them over the heads of selected videos. My favorite was "The Ten Commandments." The angle was perfect and the content made me laugh. Hey, it was the early nineties and there was no Photoshop. We had to improvise. (Now get off my lawn).



We goofed off. We worked hard when we had to and slacked whenever we could. Made fun of people and ourselves. We watched movies. We played pretentious film snobs. We got silly after work and drank too much. We were...kids.

And sometimes I kind of miss that. But thankfully that feeling doesn't last too long.