I don't care about sports.
That's right, I said it, and I won't take it back. I. Don't. Care. I've never cared. I don't even know which teams goes to what sport. And I will scream "touchdown!" when the subject is about a baseball game, just to irk people who won't shut up about it.
Don't get me wrong: if you love sports and eagerly watch your favorite teams win or lose and have your junk-food infused days with your buddies; more power to you. But some folks tend to get religious about it.
Seriously, when I say I don't care about sports, some nutjob takes it as an invitation to explain in detail exactly how [sport] works, from team positions to rules to how to throw the ball. Dude, are you trying to convert me or something? I get that you love it, but I don't get why I have to care.
The few times I've passed a TV where some sport was playing, I've likened it to throwing a single tennis ball into a dog park and letting it bounce through the milling masses. The result looks exactly the same to me, plus or minus a few flying legs and wagging tails.
I will pause to let you giggle your head off at the imagery of a horde of excited dogs stampeding en masse.
Of course, this usually meant that Superbowl Sunday meant I was one of the few employees who didn't try to get the day off. It was also the day that the employees had a radio tuned to the Superbowl in the stock room. And the day that announcements of the current score came over the PA System at intervals. AND the day that we had fuck-all to do all day.
Seriously, in the month of... *looks it up* early February, all the shelving that needed to be done during the holidays was taken care of starting in January. We have flushed the books. We have stuffed the shelves so there's barely any squiggle room. We get MAYBE five customers an hour. Custys are pounced upon like a dog on a delectable piece of steak that falls on the floor.
And I'm stuck at registers.
I have checked the holds. Three times. I've stocked the Lindor chocolates. I've straightened nearby tables. I'm staring hopelessly at a far wall.
And a manager berates me for not looking busy.
Dude, fuck you.
I've done everything I can for within line of sight to the registers. I still have at least 7 1/2 hours left to go.
I know, I probably shouldn't bitch about having almost zero customers. But when there's nothing to do... seriously... nothing to do... it's impossible to look busy without doing OCD shit like counting bookmarks or pulling out a ruler and making sure every book on the table is exactly 1/4 inch apart at all times.
The people who DO show up don't care about the Superbowl any more than I do or else were forced to go out by a wife who somehow believes that the bookstore is a matter of life and death on that one particular day. The latter always asks me if I know the current score.
Wait a few minutes. The announcement will be made soon, I'm sure.
The movie theater was across the street, so that normally provides an ebb and flow of humanity as regular as the tides. People come in to kill time before the movie. They then rush the registers to make their purchase before going across the street. The movie let out, expect an influx. Movie-adapted-from-book just released? Oh yes, we have a bunch of those. Here you go!
Except on Superbowl Sunday. If the door blows open, a zombie faced movie theater slave likely comes in, riding on a wave of buttery popcorn scent wafting from his black and white uniform. He shares laments about it being incredibly dead, hits the cafe and grabs a book, then returns to his own job of staring at the wall and/or reading to pass the time.
Managers circle like buzzards, trying to find something... anything... to make the hourly wage get EARNED instead of paying people to do nothing.
We are staffed by a skeleton crew. The store cannot be open with any fewer people. Nobody can be spared to go home early without pulling a cafe barista from HER empty register or sticking a highly valuable manager on a job that happens to be beneath him. We cannot vacuum because the cleaning crew does that. I've already used Windex on the glass part of the counter. Not a smudge or fingerprint to be seen.
I saw one fellow slave restocking the manga section one book at a time, which in involves finding a blank spot, climbing a tall ladder to the overstock, rummaging for the exact manga, climbing down and putting it in its place. This is a slave who, on regular days, scales the ladder like a monkey and brings down whole stacks of books without even flinching. But because it's Superbowl Sunday, she has to do SOMETHING, even if it's insanely inefficient.
Managers tended to be more lenient about closing because after 6 pm, nobody walked through those doors. Nobody. At at 9:50 (whoo hoo closing 10 minutes early, we're craaayyy-zaaaayyy!) the doors are shut and locked, and we're shooed to the back to sign out because there's nothing else to do.
May all your customers be nice,