Beware of the Gold Name Tag!

I’ve worked retail for a long time—too long, in fact, and not by choice. In my career, I’ve fallen prey to many retail hazards: the night shift (once there, you’re stuck); the associate’s discount (it keeps you in debt, thus keeping you on the job); holiday pay (you forsake time with loved ones for a chump change bonus). One pitfall I’ve thankfully avoided is the promotion to retail management.

I hear you. You’re saying, “How can a promotion ever be bad? Like Elvis Costello once sang, ‘There’s no danger. It’s a pro-fes-sion-al ca-reer. . .’ Left must’ve popped a few leftover Vicodins and washed them down with a bottle of Wild Irish Rose—AGAIN.” Well, no. Not this time, anyway.

To the uninitiated, it seems harmless enough. You work hard and do well. Your boss takes note of this. Then, one sunny day, you get summoned to the Majordomo’s office. Upon arrival, you find him coiled behind his desk like a boa constrictor ready to pounce on a fat rat.

“Come in, Stooge!” he hisses, licking his fangs. “Have a seat. We’ve been watching you, Stooge, for quite a while. And we like what we’ve seen.”

You never find out who “we” are. You know he can’t be referring to any of his assistants. Those flunkies, to a man, are so clueless, they forget to zip their flies before coming out of the toilet.

“Yes, Stooge,” Majordomo continues, “we’ve decided that you’re a real go-getter with a future at this company. Blah-blah-blah, yadda-yadda-yadda, yakkety-yak. For those reasons, I’m offering you a chance to join our management team.”

Usually, the offer is a tiny pay raise, some extra health insurance and a fancy-sounding but ultimately meaningless title, such as “Third Chief Auxiliary Manager In Charge of His Ding-Dong”. Sometimes, they’ll even give you a shiny gold name tag, hoping that the glittering doodad will distract you from the fact that the post’s previous occupant was dragged out of the store, laughing hysterically, in a straitjacket.

A couple of times, over the years, I’ve been offered the gold name tag. Placing a high premium on my sanity, however, I’ve never accepted it. I could provide you with a long list of broken souls who have. In the interests of time, though, I’ll just cite the most recent example. I’ll call her “Allegra”.

Allegra is a twentysomething assistant manager at the Spendorama Department Store. For three years, she was a salesperson in the Infants’ and Children’s clothing departments. Allegra, I’ve been told, was a congenial and cooperative worker who was respected by customers and coworkers alike. She was especially adept at opening new Spendorama credit accounts (“There’s no annual fee and no interest for the first 6 months!”). Allegra bears some resemblance, in both appearance and demeanor, to Sandra Bullock in “While You Were Sleeping”. Raised in Toronto by parents who were limey immigrants, Allegra’s speech is marked by a British clip and Anglicisms, such as “Right-o!”

Two months ago, Allegra was offered the gold name tag. She accepted. And everything changed.

Much like Jeff Goldblum’s horrific transformation in “The Fly”, Allegra soon began to exhibit the often grotesque features of the typical retail manager. Before, Allegra’s personality ranged from mildly pleasant to sanely indifferent. Now, regardless of the time of day, Allegra has just two modes: manic happiness or psychotic distress:

“GOOD MORNING/EVENING, JOHN!” she’ll say, breezing past my work station. “ISN’T THIS SIMPLY A WONDERFUL DAY?!?”

“Well,” I’ll say, “it’s Day One of the Summer Clearance Sale. Two out of the three teenyboppers scheduled to close with me have called off and I’ve got a line of coupon-bearing customers at my cash register that’s a mile long. What do you think, Allegra?”

“CAPITAL, JOHN, KEEP UP THE GOOD WORK! BUSY HANDS ARE HAPPY HANDS!” Since her promotion, Allegra’s listening skills have deteriorated to that of a two-year old’s, and for some reason, she also can’t seem to stop yelling.

“OH SWEET SUFFERING CHRIST ON THE CROSS, JOHN!” Allegra screamed at me over the phone one recent night. “WHATEVER HAPPENED IN THE BLOODY SOCK DEPARTMENT?!? IT’S TOTAL BEDLAM OVER HERE!”

“Allegra,” I said, “I’ve been here for ten minutes. I haven’t even worked my way down to the sock section yet. Is there a problem?”

“A PROBLEM! RIGHT-O, THERE’S A PROBLEM! SOMEONE HAS HUNG BLACK SOCKS ON THE WHITE SOCK RACK AND BLUE SOCKS ON THE BROWN SOCK RACK, AND SO ON! YOU KNOW SPENDORAMA’S SHELVING POLICY: LIKE COLORS WITH LIKE COLORS! YOU KNOW WHAT THEY SAY ABOUT POLICIES, JOHN: RULES ARE NOTHING BUT WORDS ON PAPER UNLESS WE MAKE THEM REALITIES!”

“And. . .?” I asked.

“AND SO YOU NEED TO COME DOWN TO SOCKS DIRECTLY AND ADDRESS THIS ISSUE! BLUE SOCKS ON THE BROWN SOCK RACK IS MOST UNACCEPTABLE, AFTER ALL!”

Since her promotion, Allegra has ceased to speak English as we know it. Her speech now consists of a curious mixture of buzzwords and catchphrases from various Spendorama handbooks, known as “retailese”. An example:

“JOHN!” said Allegra, approaching me at the beginning of a recent shift. “I SEE THAT YOU’RE ZONING [straightening merchandise on shelves] MEN’S UNDERGARMENTS, JOHN! WHAT IS YOUR ACTION-PLAN FOR TONIGHT? AND HAVE YOU TOUCHED BASE WITH YOUR ASSOCIATES, JOHN? HAVE YOU DIALOGUED WITH THEM REGARDING YOUR ACTION-PLAN? WHICH SITUATIONS ARE THEY CURRENTLY ADDRESSING?”

For those who don’t speak retail, I’ll translate. Allegra wanted to know how I meant to go about my work that evening. She also wanted to know where the other two salesdweebs I was scheduled with were and what they were doing (besides dodging customers). Before, she might’ve asked me, “John, what are you up to tonight? And what are Larry and Curley working on?” Not that Allegra knows who Larry and Curley are, but you get my drift.

There’s also the continuous and grating habit of stating the obvious. Before, Allegra might’ve walked past me without comment. Now, every time she sees me, we have a dialogue like the one we had last night:

“JOHN! YOU’RE STRAIGHTENING TIES, I SEE!” Allegra said.

This was a deduction worthy of Sherlock Holmes because, by happenstance, I was straightening the ties we display on a round table in the Men’s Formalwear department.

“Yes, Allegra,” I answered.

“TIP-TOP! AND WHEN YOU’RE DONE, YOU’RE GOING TO TIDY UP THE DRESS SHIRT SECTION?”

Another sharp observation, especially since the dress shirts are located directly next to the ties on the sales floor.

“Yes, Allegra,” I replied.

“AND WHEN YOU COMPLETE YOUR DUTIES—”

“—I should call you so you can check my work and send me along to assist in another department,” I said, heading her off at the pass by quoting the exact same thing she always says every time we have this discussion.

“RIGHT-O! CARRY ON, THEN!”

It’s not that I think Allegra is a bad person. Unlike many managers I’ve had, she does not slack off. If anything, she tries too hard to succeed. I think it’s this drive to be a success, coupled with the unending series of above-and-beyond-the-call-of-duty demands made on a Spendorama assistant manager, that has pushed Allegra over the edge into a zone which I call “retail psychosis”. What demands? Read it and weep:

1.) Before, Allegra worked 32-40 hours weekly. Now, she typically logs in 50 hours or more. Previously, she worked the day shift, with an occasional weekend. Holidays were left to seasonal or part-time dweebs, like me. Now, the girl works days, nights, weekends and holidays. I’ve seen her work the noon to closing shift (9p.m. or later), then open the store up the next day at nine o’ clock in the morning. Before, she was paid by the hour; overtime meant extra cash in her pocket. Now, she’s on a straight salary; if she pulls 40 hours or 60 hours, it doesn’t matter. The paycheck is the same.

2.) Before, Allegra’s responsibilities were limited to Infants’ and Children’s clothing. Now, she pitches in wherever she’s needed, whenever and for however long she’s needed. Evidently, Spendorama doesn’t provide its new assistant managers with any more training than it gives its new salespeople. Last week, I saw the classic “What the Hell Am I Doing?” look emblazoned on her face as she attempted to man the Housewares counter, with an irate old lady bombarding her with questions about the new George Foreman electric grill.

3.) Before, Allegra worked in just one store—ours. The week before last, she was sent to a store in the next county, nearly twenty miles away, to cover for another assistant manager whose wife had a baby. Allegra found out about it the morning she was due at the other store—with about two hours' notice.

4.) As a salesperson, Allegra was not required to perform janitorial services. These duties are usually assigned to the maintenance men. . .when they’re around. On a recent evening, a customer’s mentally challenged son had an accident all over the floor of the men’s restroom. The other manager on duty, a guy, was tied up with a customer at the Service Desk. Allegra headed into the guys’ john with rubber gloves, a mop and a bucket. When she emerged, her face was the same color as the Wicked Witch’s in “The Wizard of Oz”. But the john was clean.

And last, but not least, are the opinions of her coworkers. Words like “bitch”, “asskisser” and “suckup” have become familiar descriptors of Allegra in the mouths of people who formerly called themselves her friends. At least two ex-buddies of hers speak with Allegra only when the job requires them to do so.

As for me? Allegra has revived the sense of urgency with which I scan the want ads. Christmas is coming soon. The thought of working a holiday rush with her makes my blood run cold.

So ends my cautionary tale, friends. Beware of the gold name tag. It just ain’t worth it.

The Biggest Rock Star Nobody Knows

Often, customers and coworkers at the Spendorama Department Store make me feel like Charlton Heston in “Planet of the Apes”. When that happens, I save my sanity by spending my dinner break at a small bookstore in the mall.

It was there, among the stacks of sudoku books and manga anthologies, that I ran across the most intriguing biography I’ve read in a long time: Reggie Nadelson’s Comrade Rockstar: The Life and Mystery of Dean Reed, the All-American Boy who Brought Rock n’ Roll to the Soviet Union (Walker & Company, $14.95). I literally could not put this book down until I’d read the whole damned thing.

Dean Reed, Ms. Nadelson writes, started out typically enough. Born in 1938 to middle class parents, Reed was raised, “Leave It to Beaver”-style, in a small town near Denver, Colorado. In adolescence, the handsome lad discovered he could carry a tune—and how this talent, when coupled with a guitar, could draw females like syrup draws flies. After spending a few summers honing his performing skills in local venues, Reed packed up his six-string and headed for Hollywood. Young Dean meant to be the next Elvis, or at least the next Ricky Nelson.

Arriving in California in 1959, Reed lived out the fantasy of countless show biz hopefuls. In short order, he snagged a recording contract with Capitol Records and a screen test with Warner Brothers Studios. To sharpen his budding acting chops, the WB enrolled the boy in a class taught by master thespian Paton Price, where Reed’s fellow students included the Smothers Brothers, Jean Seberg and the Everly Brothers. The vaunted Warner/Capitol publicity machine began cranking out interviews with, articles about and 8” X 10” glossies of the star-in-waiting. Success seemed to be within Reed’s reach.

But fate can be fickle. By 1961, hard work, Capitol and the WB had brought Reed nothing but one minor pop hit, a bunch of flops and a guest appearance on a now-forgotten sitcom. Just when he was ready to quit, Reed learned that one of his records was perched at the top of the charts in Chile. Yes, in South America. For the hell of it, Reed hopped a plane to Santiago to see what the fuss was about.

The crowd which greeted Dean Reed in Chile, writes Nadelson, made the throng that met the Beatles in New York in 1964 look pitiful by comparison. Seizing the day, Capitol Records sent Reed out on a concert tour of Chile, Argentina and neighboring countries, where he played to packed houses. Recognizing which side of the bread his butter was on, Reed learned Spanish and moved to Buenos Aires. Dean Reed records sold faster than those of any other rocker, including Elvis. Popular movies and a TV show followed. In Latin America in the early 1960’s, this Colorado crooner was the king of rock n’ roll.

If the story had ended there, it would’ve been no big deal. As David Hasselhoff can tell you, many American entertainers find success far from home. But under the tutelage of liberal activist Paton Price, Reed had developed a “conscience”, as well as a desire to use his fame to help his fellow man. In South America, Nadelson explains, Reed witnessed widespread poverty and abuse of the poor by governments that were supposedly bankrolled by the United States. The experience radicalized the singer, transforming him into a left-winger and an outspoken critic of his native land. He incorporated political material into his act and often performed benefit concerts for like-minded organizations. Reed dubbed himself a “socialist”. Stateside, the favored term was “pinko”.

By the mid-1960’s, Reed had been driven out of South America for his leftist beliefs. For a time, he settled in Rome; he put his acting skills and American looks to good use by starring in a series of Italian “spaghetti” Western movies. He was also active in the anti-Vietnam War movement. By the end of the decade, Reed had moved to East Berlin and into the apex of his career.

In the 1970’s, Dean Reed was one of the Communist world’s premier stars. His albums of American rock, folk and country standards were gobbled up like auditory forbidden fruit. His films and TV shows, many of which he directed himself, were received with similar enthusiasm. Reed was the first American rock singer to tour the Soviet Union, and he did so annually. The highlight of a Reed concert, Nadelson writes, was the point at which he’d venture out into the audience, serenade a young beauty and treat her to a peck on the cheek. Tame stuff in the West, for sure. But to the stoic Russians, it was delightfully risque. Imagine how teenaged Natasha must’ve swooned: “He’s dreamy, talented and a loyal Marxist, too!”

Just when you think you know where this story is headed, Nadelson reveals another factoid that keeps you guessing. For example, Reed was a true-blue Red, a guy who rubbed elbows with the likes of Chile’s Salvador Allende, Nicaragua’s Daniel Ortega, Russia’s Leonid Brezhnev and Palestine’s Yasser Arafat—all professed enemies of America. Yet, the singer held on to his U.S. passport, filed a tax return with the I.R.S. each year and publicly described himself as “a good American”. Watching Nadelson sort through the many contradictions of Reed’s life makes for an enriching reading experience.

If you want to learn more, and there's lots more, read Comrade Rockstar. I’m not revealing too much by saying that Reed is not able to give his side of the story. In 1986, the 48-year old died in in East Berlin. The official cause of death was "a swimming accident". Those who knew Reed well, though, rejected this conclusion outright and maintained that foul play of a political nature was involved. Today, all of Dean Reed’s albums are out of print. And now, as then, he remains almost completely unknown in his home country.

Reggie Nadelson has told well the tale of a man who exemplified the pitfalls of vanity, idealism and misplaced loyalty.





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