Bait Shop managers hold what’s called a “huddle” just prior to opening time each morning. That’s 9 o’clock.
Clearly they are instructed to review certain things. Safety, theft, shrinkage, deals, coupons; these appear as required, but the menu consistently contains a sales numbers breakdown and their plus or minus to budget. The store consistently loses customers. Yesterday, for example, the report was that customer numbers were down 10% but that sales were up 7%. ATV – average transaction value – obviously must be on the increase.
I raised this point, for the first time voicing my quizzical feeling about all this. We have no control over how many bogans stumble through the front door, but we have influence over what happens thereafter. Influence mind you, not control. On that front we are actually doing a pretty darn good job, but you would never know from the attitude of any manager. The prevailing tone is about adding adding adding without a thought of celebrating our ongoing successes.
It’s weak and stupid and poor supervision, let alone management.
At the beginning of the year the Bait Manager made me responsible for two adjacent aisles in the store. The second-biggest seller, white bait, was mine to keep tidy, keep stocked and keep loved.
I didn’t mind the idea because it gave me a place to be, something constructive to do and because of the store layout, might even keep me out of the limelight.
Yesterday I happened upon the sales figures for last week. It seems that what had been the second-largest seller in the store was now the number one, beating out red bait by a significant margin.
I pointedly mentioned this to the Assistant Bait Store Manager, who seemed not to know about this large sales shift in HIS store.
ABSM: Huh. Interesting.
Me: You know why?
Me: I’m standing here.
ABSM: Oh, that’s right. You’re looking after that department.
Me: Yes. It’s always tidy, bins well but not overly stocked and I’m selling a truckload.
And with that he went back to his binders.
So let me ask you: Why would anyone want to work in this dump?
Astonishingly, the Bait Manager said to me last night:
We’re not going to charge you for a busted up bait box. You work too hard for us to do that.
This is the first time that anyone verbalized that sentiment. How do I feel about this? Somewhat vindicated, but only in the sense that it’s an emotional response only. If Shady Dave and Crooked Bob really valued my (maximum) effort, they’d reward me with money.
To review: After my 90 day assessment, I’m still peeved at the lack of managerial recognition of the fact that I worked as hard as I could over that period. This does not redress the perceived slight, but at least I know that SOMEONE noticed my perspiration.
Conclusion: Piss-poor management. Nothing new here.
Another disappointing day wrapped its depressing shawl around me today. The winter of my discontent is sadly unmatched by the actual winter, meaning that it’s hot and sticky running around the bait shop.
Dealing with the bogans isn’t fun either. The awful old people are, for the most part, utterly graceless and lacking charm, plus they exhibit all bogan behaviors simultaneously. It’s not a good mix.
Me: How many packets of earthworms would you like? Will you require a case?
Bogan: Oh, I just need a few.
Me: Here they are. (Pointing at a full shelf.) I’ll leave you now. (I walk off.)
Bogan: Okay. How much are they? Oh. Wait. Yes, how many in a case? I think I want one now.
Me: (Returning to bogan.) Twelve, ma’am.
Bogan: Oh. Well, I’ll only take six then.
Canadans are the worst. If another one tells me how much they pay for their crap earthworms in the frozen north, I’ll project vomitus all over them. They are the cheapest motherfuckers in the history of motherfuckery and have horrendous taste too.
As m’colleague asks, why would you live six months in a place waiting to move somewhere else (ie: here) for the other six months? What kind of dump must that be?
Gotta get out of this lark.