The following is part of a serialized story, Everyone Thinks I Dream of Chocolate. You can find the first chapter here.
One weekend when I was still a part-timer, Dick complained during a slow part of a shift that he needed more workers on the weekends.
“Don’t you have any friends?” he asked.
“Yeah but I don’t know if they are looking for jobs right now.”
He rolled his eyes and let out an ‘ugh’.
“Don’t your friends like money?”
“I guess not.”
“Well don’t you have a Facebook or something?”
I did but I didn’t really like posting on it. I only really had one for keeping in contact with certain friend groups and hobbies but I wasn’t usually audacious enough to post on my own wall for the world to see. I find that most people my age use Facebook to:
- Document their digital or real-life dramas in a public diary (aren’t these supposed to be private?)
- Complain about things that they have no plans to solve productively
- Fish for sympathy for the consequence of their own actions
It was like witnessing a digital museum, every exhibit an example of humanity’s inability to communicate without looking like an ass. I’ve had enough of that in high school.
But as a favor to Dick, I posted the unofficial job listing. That same day, Christian dropped a comment.
At the time, I barely knew Christian. I had met him several times at my University’s Poetry Club, which became known more for our after-parties than actual poetry.
My first actual memory of him was during one of our poetry readings. I had finished sharing a piece I wrote and the floor was open for the other members to contribute feedback. Christian was the first person to speak.
He said,
“I don’t like your use of the B-word. It is offensive and degrading to women who have experienced a long history of violence and discrimination from men.”
So, no. I wouldn’t say I liked Christian at the start.
Still, he was the first person to respond so I sent him a private message with all of Dick’s info. That same weekend, he arrived, smile and all.
Christian made an immediate impression. He was tall, at least a foot and a half taller than me. His hair was silky brown yet also disheveled. Jean jacket with pins of various designs. He had a sense of style for sure.
He had the energy to match. Many of the customers liked him immediately. He had a kindness that was both boisterous and tender, genuinely interested in helping people leave the store happy.
To the untrained ear, his “customer voice” was pretty similar to his regular voice (although I became pretty attuned to the distinction by the end of my career). Often it had a high pitch tone and energy. He also spoke with a cadence that felt at times like a sing-song. Looking back, this was probably another reason why I disliked him initially. Christian is something of a performer, having done plays and musicals so his theatrics are rooted in his personality.
I wouldn’t say I have an aversion to performing. I am an artist as well. Yet, I’m also not one for kissing ass. I would much rather that people and their art openly mock me rather than give me a false sense of security. At least with the former, I know where I stand.
I didn’t think my customer service was bad, especially at the beginning of my career. However, I don’t think I was ever exemplary, either. To do so would be too sickly sweet, like sucking body chocolate off an asshole.
I did tend to fold my arms and straighten my back, tilting my chin ever so slightly up. Later, one of the regulars said this made me look tense, even hostile. In reality, my back was just sore from bending over a table all day. If I was annoyed at someone (which I often was), I didn’t think I was presenting it so openly.
My voice was also pretty deep. I had a reputation for it being loud, my throat producing depth, like the wobbles and blasts of electronic bass music. Bringing my voice up to a higher tone often felt more like a satire, like I was secretly mocking the customer (which I was, sometimes). I certainly didn’t like the way it made me sound.
Lou once brought this up. “Do you think you can sound a little nicer?” she said.
“What do you mean?”
“Like how one would speak to a customer. You know with a sense of grace. Like servers in fancy restaurants. Service.”
Lou also had a cadence similar to Christians that was outwardly sweet. Then again, she was the boss so her tone had a distinct undertone that reminded me of a gangster’s threat: a warning disguised as a suggestion.
“I’ll try,” I said. I meant it, too but I was also uncomfortable with this performance I have been asked to partake in.
“Good” she said. “And can you also smile a bit more often?”
This one baffled me at first because I thought I was smiling. In fact, I made sure in my mind to smile before every customer interaction. Yet, when I looked in a mirror later that day, I had to admit that she was right. Most people would have considered my customer face as intense indifference.
I blame this one on my background. Traditionally, Koreans have a long history of treating every photograph like a mugshot. It’s probably a side effect of having a long history of dictatorships and oppression.
Now, this trend is changing in the age of selfies and digital filters but personally, I have never been able to figure out how to smile on camera. After 5th grade, I stopped trying to look happy in pictures. Instead, I have opted to try minimizing how upset I look. Inadvertently, I have continued Korea’s cultural tradition of photographic stoicism in an age where people prefer to look happy about everything and nothing.
A while later, I was talking to my mom about some of these concerns when she snapped her fingers.
“You know where you get this from?” she said. “Your father.”
“Dad used to sell chocolate?”
“No, but he used to be in sales. Real Estate.”
I had a vague memory of my father being a realtor when I was about 8. I can picture him wearing a suit and tie and carrying a briefcase.
“Your father also never liked kissing up to people. He was supposed to talk up the place and butter up the folks. You know what his best line was as a salesman?”
I shook my head.
My mother relaxed her entire face so that the eyelids and the corners of her mouth drooped down into an expression that looked perpetually tired and certainly annoyed. She looked exactly like my father.
“You want the house or not?”
Her mimicry was spot on, having dropped several octaves, the tone made it sound like she was ready for a beer.
“Damn,” I said. “So what did he do?”
“What do you think? he quit and got a certification in information systems.”
Even though I finished my English degree, I did have a similar option to go back to school. I could have gone back to school for another Bachelors’ or even a Masters but I had little interest in returning to that life.
So, I stuck it out for another year and a half. In that time, I have come to document people and the way they act, in front of and behind the work counter. I can’t say it was always a good time (by the end, it often wasn’t). What I can say is that it was an interesting anthropologic exercise.
I was a zookeeper in a human zoo, the counter being a sort of safety cage that protected me from the Jurassic Park-like hostilities. These human dinosaurs often smiled, carnivorous and hungry. Their teeth cut into the chocolate, but their real chemical high was often the compliments that set off their egos. Sugar and power were two drugs we could serve back to back, like a cigarette after sex, coffee after cigarettes, and a free cab ride at the end to top it all off.
By the end, I guess the reason the job chewed me up so hard was that my natural aversion to a world where I had to smile all the damn time. I think it’s one part of the Covid-19 pandemic that I appreciate: the normalization of masks. I can say words I don’t mean without the face to back it up. Even better, without their expressions to distract me, all I have to do is simply listen to people, scanning every line for truth and deception.
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12. Beating the Clock
Danger Wonka 