Toy Cars Should Go "Vroom," Not "Cha-Ching"

So, I've been the manager of the toy department at work for about two months. (This statement, on the surface, suggests a certain degree of inexperience that should not be inferred. I've been in retail for 14 years, three of them at a toy store and eight of them as a department manager.) Anyway, my point is that I supervise and manage about 2400 different products, but there's only one of those products that people seem to really care about. You can probably guess which one I'm referring to.

So, when are you putting out some new Hot Wheels? Do you have any cases of Hot Wheels in the back? How come you haven't ordered any more Hot Wheels lately? The other stores are getting new Hot Wheels; why aren't you? Do you know when you'll be getting more Hot Wheels?

Never before have I seen 40-year-old men get so excited over ninety-nine cent toy cars.

Now, I really don't disparage people for collecting toys. I'm a collector myself, and I plan to be one for the forseeable future (which in itself is kind of a funny phrase—none of us is clairvoyant so the future isn't actually forseeable at all). I have a collection of over 3700 toys and I'm proud of that fact. I've long outgrown the phase where I was uncomfortable taking a Transformers or Star Wars character to the cash register and dreading the usual cashier interrogation. Is this for you? Do you, like, actually take them out of the package and play with them? (Look, honey, I don't ask rude, probing questions about what you do at home with battery-operated toys, so I'd appreciate the same courtesy.) The point is that I'm comfortable with my level of childishness. (I don't even employ the euphemisms normally associated with the hobby, using trade jargon like "collectible" or "action figure." Nope, them's toys. Toys toys toys. The place is called Toys "R" Us, not TRU. It's a place that sells toys, folks.)

Now, I don't necessarily expect every single customer to understand how retail works. The fact of the matter is that most of the inventory replenishment is governed by computers. The store's system tracks the rate of sale and orders new merchandise accordingly. If there are 72 Hot Wheels cars in a shipping case and my store is only selling about 20-30 cars on an average week, then we're not going to be receiving a new case every single week. That's just not the way it works. Yes, I have the authority to create supplemental orders as needed, but let's say that all the pegs on the salesfloor are full and I order a new case anyway. Once it comes in, where am I supposed to put it? The stockroom in the back of the store isn't some magical infinite storage facility maintained by elves and unicrons with shelves that ascend to the heavens. There's a finite limit to how many boxes can fit back there. Besides, you and I both know that the only reason you want first crack at that shipping case is so you can pull out that one specially-painted car that will sell for five or six bucks on eBay and that you have absolutely no interest in the other 71 cars. I'm not an idiot.

What I encounter about half the time is angry collectors who, by the time I am confronted by their unshaven, smelly visage at the crack of 7:23 in the morning, have probably already been to four or five other stores in the immediate area and have still come up empty-handed. I should like to point out that by this point in the day, I still haven't had my Mountain Dew Voltage and was probably sound asleep about half an hour before you showed up. Okay, though, I'm willing to give you the benefit of the doubt. Every customer deserves to be treated with courtesy and respect, at least until you give me a reason to the contrary. Really, though, I don't have any control over what the night stockers do. Maybe they dig through the boxes and cherry-pick the Treasure Hunts. Maybe they just do their job and stock the shelves, and the other unshaven smelly guy who showed up at 7:06 beat you to it. I really can't say. When you accuse me of being part of some grand retail conspiracy to prevent you from getting your tiny little 1969 Camaro with rubberized tires, though, that's when I switch off. Really, dude, if it means that much to you, get on eBay and spend the $4.95 like everybody else.

The pendulum seems to swing in both directions. The alternative is people who try to immediately buddy up, frequently referring to me by my first name (it's on my name badge; how clever of you to notice), laying on the phony charm and trying to establish some kind of repertoire. I guess it must be every collector's dream to have an "inside man" in the retail industry who can give him an advantage over other collectors. Here's the thing, though. I really, honestly, emphatically do not want to be your friend. I will smile at you and respond to your questions politely because I am in the customer service industry and I get paid to do this. Don't mistake this for some desire on my part to become your pal. Along the same lines, bank tellers and waitresses and prostitutes will all smile at you and make small talk, but it's all part of the package. You are purchasing a service, nothing more.

Not all collectors are like this, of course. Some of them are genuine and sincere and do not make my life difficult. They don't accuse me of hiding overstock in the back room. They don't "helpfully" stuff half the pegs full of Hot Wheels and leave the other half completely empty, as if to demonstrate to me that I have room for another case of cars and that I should really bring them out right away. (You know what I do as soon as you leave? I put those cars right back where they came from. Systematically rearranging merchandise on the pegs like some kind of die-cast Tetris game doesn't magically make the computer order more stock.) It's a handful of people who really ruin the image of collectors as a whole, and particularly Hot Wheels collectors, who seem to be an entire breed unto themselves. I love my department and I love my job, but I absolutely dread spotting somebody in the Hot Wheels aisle. Almost without exception, he is male, he is alone, he is there very early in the morning, and he's about three or four decades older than Mattel's target audience. Stop fitting the stereotype so precisely, and I'll stop collector-profiling.

I guess what I really want to say here is that I only have eight hours a day to get my job done. At any given time, I've got price changes that need to be labeled and bikes that need to be repaired and out-of-stocks that need to be ordered and a shopping cart full of returns that need to be put back on the shelves. I really don't have the time to debate with you the finer points of Mattel's shipping case ratios or the ethics of scalping. I will help you find what you need, and if we don't have it, then I apologize. That's my job. That's what I get paid to do.

Now, if you'll excuse me, can I please get back to the other 2399 toys that require my attention?

Count Von Count Gets A Job

So, today my store was invaded by a swarm of mindless worker drones. Vaguely humanoid creatures in a disturbingly diverse myriad of shapes and sizes, all wearing matching uniforms, perhaps in an attempt to disguise their grotesque physiques. They were partly technological in composition, with computers attached to their bodies and electronic cables winding around their arms and fingertips like electronic snakes. They advanced upon me slowly, deliberately, with a vacant but determined look in their eyes. They came at me from every direction; there was no escape. Nowhere to run. No chance of escape.

That's right. They were RGIS employees.

I've been in the retail business for a depressingly long time, so I've gone through store inventory with enough frequency that it's become routine. My role in this affair is threefold. First, I spend upwards of nine or ten days in a row, frantically straightening and arranging and carefully preparing every piece of merchandise in my department, culminating in a grand and glorious split shift that ends well after my children's bedtimes. Phase two is to dutifully stand around and do absolutely nothing of consequence, during what always has been, and always will be, the longest and most absolutely boring day of the year. It is a day during which I am forbidden to stock the shelves——indeed, I am not permitted to even pick up a piece of merchandise from the floor that has been dropped by a careless customer. The reasons for this will soon become apparent. Then, finally, after what is typically about eight hours's worth of being paid to do nothing of import, the swarm of drones finally deigns to descend upon my department, yelling obscenities like "SKU CHECK!!!111ELEVENTYONE" at every conceivable opportunity. By this point, of course, I have been on my feet for the entire day without respite, without purpose, and I find myself too beleaguered to be properly motivated by their tactless ways.

I do not fault every employee of this esteemed organization, for they are a very large company who service a wide range of retail establishments, so clearly they must be doing something right. What I take issue with is the people who argue with me when I try to help them. For example, when I politely point out that the blue bicycle is in fact a different UPC than the red one and would they please scan each one individually, for this is, after all, why I prepared two separate shelf tags, complete with two separate bar codes that should be quite easy for them to scan with their little cybernetic Borg attachments. No, says one of the drones, waving his laser finger at me threateningly, the two bikes are the same shape and therefore must in fact be the exact same product.

What I take issue with is the people who choose being lazy over doing their job correctly. Like, say, when I have a cardboard tray of small, random items, perhaps 20 or 30 total, each with a separate UPC and price point, that I have painstakingly grouped together for the singular purpose of being scanned individually. I even make the suggestion to the worker drone that he set each item aside on the floor as he scans them, allowing him to easily keep track of them (leaving me to pick them up afterwards, of course). No, says the worker drone, clearly possessing far more intelligence than I, who proceeds to scan only two or three of these items. Close enough, right?

What I take issue with is people with absolutely no regard for how hard I worked to organize my department, carefully separating products, even going so far as to creating new homes for merchandise just so I can stack it more neatly, all with the ultimate goal of making it easier for them to count everything, only to watch as they push, shove, and literally throw products in every direction, trashing my department to the point where it looks even worse than the day after Thanksgiving.

What I take issue with is people leaving stepladders unfolded in the middle of the aisles, but when I perceive this as a safety hazard and decide to fold them up and prop them up so that they're out of the way and are no longer an inviting prospect for small children to climb on and hurt themselves, I am accused of stealing from you the tools that you need to to your job.

In years past there have been similar episodes. The worker drones are raised from birth to value expedience at all costs, even above such paltry frivolities as accuracy. Hey, what does it matter how many mistakes you make, as long as you make them quickly? You see five items; you type fifty-five. Well, that's pretty much the same thing, isn't it? You count twenty-nine pieces but you write down ninety-two. Virtually no difference! Completely forgot about an entire endcap of merchandise? Well, honestly, what are a few thousand dollars' worth of product in the grand scheme of things?

Would it hurt to show a little common courtesy? How difficult is it to take the blinders off for two seconds and pick up a product that you carelessly brushed to the floor? How much extra effort does it really take to count the different products on different shelves marked with different price labels, instead of just assuming they must all be identical just because the boxes look to be about the same shape and size? Must you litter the floor of every single aisle in my department with those obnoxious sticky labels? And, for God's sake, would it kill you to take a shower before you come to work so the rest of us aren't forced to inhale whatever malignant putrefaction is positively oozing from your pores?

Also, consider this fair warning that the next time you scream "SKU CHECK!" at the top of your lungs when I am standing right behind you, I will clock you upside the head with your own stepladder.

Stop Stealing My Toys

Hey, Zob remembered that he had a blog.

I will freely admit that creepy Internet stalkers tend to be a major turn-off for me. Please, creepy Internet stalkers, please try to find some other way to pass the time. Like toilet-training your cats or declawing your children. (What's bizarre is that, even though it's been about eight years, I won't have to update my profile page. Strange how some things never change.)

What hasn't changed in the interim: I'm still working retail; I still have an uncomfortably large number of cats (for our purposes, "uncomfortably large" is a whole number between zero and four); I still have way too many toys and yet always seem to find a reason to buy more (in my defense, I have sold off a very small number of expensive collectibles, but I estimate they comprised less than one percent of The Collection with a capital "C," and I'll give you three guesses what I bought with the proceeds [hint: made of plastic with an average of 20 points of articulation]).

What has changed: I've remarried and have two more kids. My son, Freakshow, is five-and-a-half and my daughter, Booger-Face, is almost 12 months old. (Note: those are not their real names.) I'm also the supervisor over the toy department at work, which is a source of enormous satisfaction and frustration for me.

I found myself struck with an overwhelming urge to write something and disperse it into the ether. My desire to share my words with the whole of the Internet is probably woefully misgudied, since I'll likely never reach my target audience (i.e., the random customers with whom I am rather upset right now). I have read that the act of writing can be remarkably cathartic, however, and there's also the distant hope that by pure serendipity, my words may have unforseen results and end up reaching someone I've never met in person and likely never will. This is my roundabout way of saying, yes, I realize that the people I am about to address will never see this.

First, some background information. Yes, as a manager of the toy department, it's my job to play with toys all day. That goes without saying. I am also charged with numerous ancillary responsibilities, which include "zoning" the department (that's shop talk for cleaning up after people who seem to think it's okay to leave merchandise all over the floor), ordering product, managing prices, and maintaining the inventory. That last one is of particular significance since the inventory can be affected by myriad different factors——boxes that come to the store with the wrong label, damaged product being processed incorrectly, audits to the stockroom, and theft can all affect the numbers in the store's computer system. Accurate numbers are vital because the store's computer will order new product, or ask for product to be brought from the stockroom to the salesfloor, based on whether it thinks we've run out of merchandise on the shelf. (As an aside, I do not for an instant genuinely believe that the computer is genuinely capable of sentient thought. I anthromomorphize because it amuses me to do so, and prevents me from having to explain more retail jargon like "pick lists" or "shelf caps." Also, the store computer's name is probably HAL.)

So what I am getting at is that it's a difficult process to get the computer inventory to match up what we actually have in the store. In theory, the number we have sitting in the backroom plus the number sitting on the shelf should add up to the total count that's reflected in the computer inventory. Sadly, this is not always the case with one hundred percent frequency. What happens instead is any number of possibilities. There are mystery cases of inventory floating around in the backroom, not being tracked by the computer. The product that actually is sitting in the stockroom bins is labeled wrong, so the freight monkeys have told the computer that there is only a case of twelve action figures when there are in fact 24 or 48. Retail theft also affects the inventory, because shoplifters very rarely bother to let me know, "Hey, I just pocketed a dozen of your bike repair kits, packaging and all, so you'll need to zero out your counts."

It is this subject that prompted me to write today, since the rampant theft is driving me bananas. Two items, in particular, seem to suffer from being targeted right now. One of them is the MegaBloks brand blind-packed mini-figures from Halo, based on the popular video game. The other is a toy line called Zerbos, which comes packaged in opaque vending machine style capsules and contains tiny figurines from popular licenses like Power Rangers and Marvel Comics. I routinely find dozens of packages from both toy assortments every week, and I think perhaps the appeal is that they are small (which makes them easy to conceal) and easy to open (the Halo toys come in a baggie, so if you can open a bag of Doritos then you've got it figured out). The Zerbos are of particular concern to me since they retail at a whopping ninety-seven cents. People, if you can't even afford to pay a dollar (the lowest functional increment of our currency without delving into pocket change), then what the heck are you doing in my store in the first place?!

I have decided to inactivate the Halo toys at my store, which will effectively block the computer (or anyone else) from ordering further shipments of this product. What this means is that because of one or two people who seem to have an oblique entitlement complex and believe that they should get things for free (on the condition that the package is easy to open, of course), nobody else who shops at my store will have the opportunity to purchase this product. This will probably not be a life-shattering revelation for anyone on the face of the planet (does anyone really need a one-inch-tall representation of Master Chief that can interact with LEGO sets?) but it bothers me that I've been forced to resort to extreme measures. Far more of these things are being stolen than are actually being sold at the cash registers, though, and part of my job also entails managing "shrink" (anything that results in losses to the store).

The only other thing I want to address right now is people hiding merchandise in my department. Some customers seem to think that they have their own personal no-down-payment layaway, which just happens to be located on the bottom shelf in the middle of the toy cars aisle right behind the Disney/Pixar remote-controlled Lightning McQueens. The other day I found a stash of Hot Wheels cars that I suppose some potential customer thought they might come back for later. Hot Wheels cars, incidentally, retail for $0.97. Again, if you can't afford to buy this stuff, then don't even come into my store. Seriously. (What people perhaps do not realize is that if I can't find something on the shelf, then I'm going to assume it's sold. Our store is going through inventory tomorrow and there's stuff that's up and disappeared completely. Hiding merchandise is technically theft by deception. If the RGIS people can't find it, then it's going to get zeroed out in our system.)

People justify retail theft in any number of ways. They say it's not really hurting anyone; that doing so is "sticking it to the man" by ripping off the Big Box Retailers; that it's only a miniscule dollar amount so it's not "really" stealing. (I reserve a special hatred for people who take only one mechanical pencil out of a package of twelve. Really, just grow some balls and take the whole dozen.) What I would like y'all to do is stop and think about what's going to happen when the plain-clothes loss prevention associates pull you aside and have you arrested. Ask yourself if the merchandise you're taking is really worth a steep fine and possible jail time. Also, after you take it back out of your pants pocket, put the damn product back on the shelf. I'm tired of cleaning up after you.