| HANGING FROM THE DOLLAR TREE Part III of the Dollar Tree Chronicles |
| You can tell a lot about a person by the way they handle their money. Some gently toss it in your direction; some set it nicely on the counter as if it were a formal presentation, and some even throw it at you, like they are trying to rid themselves of a plague. Still others seem as if they don't want to part with their beloved bill, and you have to carefull pry the bill, without ripping it, from their iron-wrought grasp. Some bills are wadded, indicating the bill's master just discovered it in the bottom of a dirty sock. Some bills are folded as many times as physically possible, and it takes hours upon countless hours to unfold the blasted thing just to be able to fit it into the register. Other bills are discolored, and, as you handle such a bill, you cringe at its fumes of foul disease and questionable discoloration; yet other bills are faded, indicating the bill's recent journey through tumble dry. In a normal five-hour shift at everyone's friendly neighborhood Dollar Tree, I handle over roughly one thousand two hundred and twenty-two bills. The first thing I do after clocking out from my shift is wash my hands. As I'm washing my hands, one may visibly see the colored residue (which I like to call "moneyfilth") run from my hands in dark, tainted waterdropds. It's disgusting. I cringe at the thought of such filth. However, in some magical way, like in many instances when it shouldn't, it humors me. I'm fascinated by the fact that the focus, nay, the goal (money) of our capitalistic society is also the leading transporter of disease, illness, and downright filth. It may come as a shock to some, but it is true that cash tops young children and Democrats as the leading spreader of illness amongst the general public. Alexander Hamilton, the grand-daddy of the federal treasury, would likely roll over in his grave with laughter because of the staunch irony of it all, but he would have no right to, because he was senseless enough to lose an infamous duel to Aaron Burr. Nonetheless, Hamilton never deserved to be on the ten-dollar-bill anyway. Moneyfilth aside, it takes a hero to be a Dollar Tree cashier. One must have strong faith in the dollar, embody enough courage to dash customer's hopes by pleasantly informing them that everything is indeed a dollar (see Falling Off The Dollar Tree), and must have patience of steel to handle the rise and fall of the anti-customer (see Lopping Down The Dollar Tree). However, there is one trait that is required to be an elite cashier that has gone unmentioned in the first two Dollar Tree essays: the ability to use tactics. An elite cashier must be a good tactician, because, unbeknowst by many, each and every time a Dollar Tree opens its doors to the waiting throng, a cunning tactical war is waged; a chess match of sorts. Many of you know that the store I work at has four registers, only one of which is usually open unless there is a reasonable line, in which case there may be an additional register open. Hence, when I am away from my register attempting to find the fountain of youth, there will be a bell that I leave on my cash register counter that has a sign indicating to the customer to ring the bell for service. "The battle of the bell" is another name for this tactical war that ensues between cashier and customer. The enemy (the customers) will always, first and foremost, position themselves strategically so that by the time they arrive at the register to ring the bell and purchase their selected goods, the cashier will have to travel the farthest and most inconvenient distance in order to return to the register, all the while being forced to listen to the humiliating and dehumanizing ring and clang of the bell. For example, I look around the store from my register. There aren't any cars in the parking lot. The air is deathly still, and I think I even see a tumbleweed blow by. Taking one last glance to make sure, I quietly place my bell on my register, and head to the back room, because I have some stocking to get done. As soon as I reach the far back corner of the stockroom (trampling over mountains of boxes in a guerrilla-like manner), I will hear the cursed bell clanging away. When I finally reach the register, there is a dear elderly lady waiting patiently. I prepare to ring her lone item up (a bar of soap), but then she informs me that she doesn't want to purchase it; she just wants to know how much it costs. I have to physically restrain myself from cramming the bell up my own left nostril and into my brain. This is a classic scenario. I hate that forsaken bell. When little children get their hands on it, I want to punt them through the wall that says, in big block letters, "EVERYTHING'S $1.00!" Some people ring it for fun, and it is this lowliest group of dull entertainment-seeking customers whom I want to ring for fun. At the ring of the bell I have to stop whatever I'm doing and sprint to the registers, mostly for a mere one to six dollar purchase. Sometimes I want to let customers know that I'm not a prostitute on call, and therefore, the bell has no legal right to control me. However, being the humble soul I am, I swallow my pride and keep working. To quote Peter from Office Space, the bell "is everything that is sick and wrong in this world," and I will despise and disown it until the end of my days. |