THE DOLLAR STORE
“You need to find a job.”
It was the spring of 2009: the stock market had crashed, and everyone I knew was kinda worried about money. More than usual.
I was only 17, still very immature, and just starting to realize the nature of the beast that is money. How you need it to live, how people get trapped into cubicles they hate, and how dreams are crushed because of it. All that fun stuff.
Money is not something that was on my list of priorities at that age. Perhaps sensing financial irresponsibility and doom in my adulthood, my mother decided to give me some advice before it was too late. Rightly so: for you entrepreneurs out there reading this, working for other people might be stupid but it also comes with some wonderfully valuable life lessons. And she didn’t know it yet, but my mother was just on the cusp of losing her own job at the time. Everything was going to shit that year, and my mom thought it’d be a good idea to acquire some work ethic and discipline before I couldn’t get any job at all.
So on that beautifully sunny day in 2009, my mother said those words that would start me on a sort of paradoxically beautiful, yet depressing path.
“You need to find a job, Larry,” she warned. She handed me a piece of paper with a phone number, and the name of someone vaguely Eastern European sounding.
I remember asking, “Who is this?” I’ve never been the type of person too big on networking. In fact, it’s been almost 10 years since the events of this book took place and I’m still doubtful of meeting new people. Almost every friendship I’ve ever had starts with the other person initiating contact first. It’s sad: if everyone acted like me no one would ever talk to each other.
“It’s the number for this lady I’ve worked with in the past. She might be able to help you out.”
I looked up the lady online, checked out her LinkedIn page, etc. She was a businesswoman that owned some successful establishments around my high school: the second coolest coffeeshop place in the area, and a dollar store. They were located about 5-10 minutes away from my high school by walking.
My mother explained, “When my office has meetings I always contact this lady. Her coffeeshop does all the catering and everything. I’ve given her a lot of business over the years, and now she says she might be hiring. Give her a call: she might have work for you!” It was complete nepotism, but it was only a dollar store gig, so I didn’t really give a shit about the ethics of it all. Besides, if I was really cheating someone else out of a job they needed desperately or something... I’d soon be gifted with instant karma: the job fucking sucked.
After putting it off for awhile, I eventually gave the lady a call.
“Who is this?”
“It’s Larry. Larry Singleton. I’m calling about the part-time job.”
“Oh. OH. Right. Okay, well...I think we might have something for you.”
It sounded like she had absolutely nothing for me to do there, but she was just humouring my mother. Or maybe she did have work for me, but she didn’t sound very encouraging at all. It sounded like I woke her up from a 30 year nap. Almost like she was about to say, “Yeah, I guess you can come by for an interview. Fuck it. Why not? What’s the worst that can happen?”
“Come by tomorrow after you’re finished school.”
“The coffee shop, or -”
“No. You will not be working at the coffee shop. This interview is for the dollar store. Will you be able to handle that?”
“Handle what?”
“You’re going to have to lift heavy boxes. And how is your math? Can you work a cash register?”
“It’s fine. Yes.”
“And lifting heavy things shouldn’t be a problem?”
“Not at all.”
Now, to tell you the truth: I was obviously lying through my teeth. I was 17. At 17 years old lifting heavy shit and doing math were not my chief goals in life. My main short-term goals in life at that point were: trying to get laid (and failing), and smoking pot with friends (and succeeding). I honestly had no idea what she meant when she said “heavy,” but I didn’t want to disappoint my mother. Or anyone, for that matter. It has turned into a huge learning lesson for me: never let people decide your fate. Don’t be afraid to say “no” to someone if you’re worried about pissing someone off. It’s your life. The worst that’ll happen is someone will be disappointed in you, but you can easily shake that shit off over time.
...But I was not advanced at 17. I said “yes” like a pussy, and took the dollar store job. Where I come from, the opposite makes you a pussy: not working. A part-time job is considered a character building, noble thing in my family. Plus, I didn’t want to disappoint my mother. And here’s the type of family I’m from: my grandmother had 9 children. So I’ve always been exposed to this idea of putting your livelihood before your own happiness, or mental health even. You don’t do work that is “fulfilling.” That is a new concept for my family. No, you do what you need to survive.
So I pretty much agreed to follow up on the dollar store job without thinking, assuming it was normal.
The next day I walked over to the store shortly after school ended. 3:45PM or something. While everyone was busy socializing with each other, or making plans to relocate and socialize there...I was on my way to an interview for a minimum wage job.
“Hey Larry!” A friend stopped me.
“What’s up man?”
“You wanna hang out?”
“Can’t. I have an interview at the dollar store. Might start working there soon.”
“Really? I heard they don’t hire people that go to high school here.”
“I have no idea. I’m just seeing whatever happens.”
“Well good for you, man! You’re DOIN’ SHIT!”
“Yeah. I guess.”
“Good luck. See ya around.”
Since that day I have always thought about that phrase for some reason. “Doin’ shit.” It seems like there are two types of people in the world. Society tries to fit everyone into two camps. There are the people who seemingly “do shit” and the people who don’t. The former is respectable, and the latter is somehow not. It’s always been funny to me how simply a teenager put it, yet how completely accurate it is to this day.
I continued walking to the store wondering what the hell I’d be dealing with. The first place in the plaza of stores was the coffee shop. It had a patio, lattes, and the occasional pretty girl stopping by, etc. What a shame I couldn’t work in a place like that: everyone seemed so goddamned happy!
Past the coffee place was an escalator, leading to the basement of the plaza, a disgustingly depressing contrast. Right off the steps of the escalator, you were greeted immediately with a subway station. And across from the subway station entrance: the dollar store. In all its somber glory. You couldn’t put this fucking store further away from humanity: it was like they put it as far away from the happy people upstairs as they could legally allow. If they could somehow get away with putting the store IN the subway itself, I’m sure they would.
When I entered the store, I was immediately struck by how impressively depressing the aura of the place was. Firstly: it smelled like chemicals and fucking dust. A dustiness permeated the air so strongly it was a big fuck you to people with allergies. And the lighting was just BAD. Flickering fluorescent lighting that felt like it was out of a Kubrick movie. I mean....they weren’t even TRYING. The lighting gave off a wave of depression; it wasn’t exactly bright, but it wasn’t dimly lit either. It just stayed at a level bright enough to sustain the dull, meaningless existence we all shared.
I walked all the way to the back of the store like the lady on the phone told me to. Being a dude of colour, I’ve always been very aware of myself in stores. I’ve been followed many a time in my life by Asian convenience store owners. So I was a little reluctant to walk all the way to “the back.” But I did anyway.
Sure enough, as I walked further into the elusive “back” of the store, I was greeting abruptly by a grey-haired man with ice blue eyes. He looked like a fucking serial killer. It scared the living shit out of me.
“Wot you doing here?” The man said, in a rough Russian accent I would have to hear for the next 4 years of my employment there. The funny thing about the Russian accent: even when Russian people are happy, the accent seems to be representing something else. There’s a reason the villain in so many action movies tends to be Russian: the accent is very chilling. Especially at the back of a dark dollar store filled with ominous boxes. Hearing it does something to your spine. I felt like I could get killed at any second, and he would never get caught.
“Uh...I have an interview today. I was supposed to come by at-”
“You’re Larry?” The man asked, sounding more like a statement.
“Yes.”
At that point, I expected the man to do some sort of interview. Even though it was a shitty minimum wage job, I thought there would be at least some semblance of normalcy. He asked me if I can lift heavy things.
“I can. Yes.”
He looked like he couldn’t believe I had the audacity to lie to his face, and for a moment I thought about saying, “Nevermind. Forget it. Just get someone else.”
After all, it was not the first job interview I’d had at that same plaza. I wasn’t a complete idiot, I could probably get a job somewhere else if I tried harder. I had an interview at a movie theatre (located right above the dollar store, on a higher floor). What was supposed to be a sure thing went awfully. A girl at my high school had set the interview up for me: she worked at the theatre, and she was good friends with the manager. During the interview I blanked, and couldn’t answer basic questions properly. It was all very embarrassing; one of the moments that has shaped who I am today. I learned a crucial lesson: you can’t bullshit your way through everything. “Fake it ‘til you make it,” isn’t always solid advice. I remember sitting there and giving answers so awfully transparent. It felt like I was naked. What could a 17 year old say in response to the average job interview questions? Even adults sound dumb when giving their answers.
So anyway, that day at the dollar store I was half-prepared to walk out. But the man quickly said, “Hold on,” and walked away. Within seconds he returned with the lady I spoke to on the phone.
“Can you lift heavy things?” she asked me again.
“Yes.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Okay...we usually don’t hire kids that work at your high school.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because we’ve had situations in the past. Stealing. And employees helping kids at their school to steal.”
“Oh, okay.”
I figured she was about to tell me I didn’t get the job, but instead she told me to come back that Saturday with $20. I would have to spend money for a uniform: a shitty polo shirt that said “The Dollar Store” on it. It was such a generic, dumb shirt that didn’t make it any easier to customers if I actually worked there or not.
I couldn’t believe it. I was so used to hearing bad news I had prepared myself to hear it again. And here this lady was, telling me something about a “paid training” shift. Things were happening fast. This was both a good & bad thing.
***
The “training day” was pretty easy. It basically consisted of me covering someone at a cash register. I made a few mistakes and recovered quickly. At one point I remember charging someone $1050 more than they actually spent, and at another point I accidentally gave someone $50 worth of free shit. I only realized what I had done an hour later. (The $1050 person argued with me immediately, and the $50 person remained silent, leaving the store rather quickly).
In addition to working the cash register, I was also introduced to a task that would become the source of some intense character building for the next 4 years of my life. A large, empty fridge in the middle of the store.
The serial killer ice blue eyed guy from before pointed me towards another “back” of the store. It was this narrow hallway with carbonated shitty drinks stacked on top of each other. From the ground up, all the way to the ceiling. I would literally be required to somehow reach the top of the pile of drinks, all 5 foot shit tall of me, magically bring the boxes down gracefully, place them on a dolly neatly, and bring the dolly all the way to the front of the store for unloading and re-stacking all fucking over again. I’d have to stock this fridge while everyone was shopping. I’d be in everyone’s way, and people would be in mine. It was a nightmare. It was just physical, Sisyphean labour, but these Russians made it seem like it was an act of art I had to do properly.
After the first time I stocked the fridge, the serial killer guy said, “Looks okay. But you know wot you did wrong?”
“The timing?”
“Yes. You took too long.”
His facial expression changed to sort of half-smile, half-stern. Like his face was playing a game of tug of war with itself. It was an odd expression I’d see a lot more of over the years. I could never really get a read on that guy; I wouldn’t be surprised if he had his mom’s skeleton in his fucking bedroom and talked to it like she was still alive or something.
There was one time I remember I caught him talking to himself. After an exchange with another clerk that ended with the guy apologizing, the serial killer guy muttered to himself over and over, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” That’s what a steady minimum wage job does to a person: you’re left talking to yourself in the basement of some plaza in the middle of nowhere. I remember seeing that and thinking to myself, “If I’m in the same position when I have gray hair I’m going to jump in front of the subway across from the store.”
After I was introduced to the fridge for the first time that day, I was soon shown the other Sisyphean part of the job: the trash compactor.
At specific times in the shift - the beginning, middle, and end of the night - I’d have to get all the empty boxes from all the shipments, all the garbage from all the fucking wastebaskets in the store (some made out of literal boxes: those Russians weren’t fucking around when it came to saving money), and of course all the disgusting customer coffee cups from the classy place upstairs that were strewn about the entire store like a depressing Easter hunt I had to perform every night. When I had all the garbage collected in one neat pile, I’d have to walk or sometimes wheel the garbage on the dolly to a big noisy trash compactor located in a parking lot at the back of the store. The process was simple: dump the garbage, boxes, and general shit into the compactor, and use a key to turn the thing on.
That part of the job will never leave me for as long as I live. The moments I had standing there in a parking lot in the middle of nowhere, watching this machine pack and stuff the shit out of waste, were some of the most solitary moments I’ve ever had. I was surrounded by loudness, and thinking quietly to myself. There were times I’d bring a beer, a joint, or both with me as I watched the trash compactor. I can’t describe it, but I’ve never felt so alone in all my life since then. If this story was Stand by Me, the trash compactor would be the deer: I have no idea what it means, but it’s one of those crazy poetic things I’ve kept to myself until now.
As I walked back to the store I would always pass this short African custodian guy. He would never speak unless I said hi, and he was always smiling. If not to me, to himself. Whenever I saw him I always wished I had his secret: how does an older man working such a disrespected career in society stay so happy? I’ll never know.
Whenever I saw this man I always felt like we were comrades in a war. I never said anything to him beyond the mere, “Hello,” or maybe, “Goodnight,” but I had a deep respect for him. One night I was making the rounds at the trash compactor, and I expected to see the guy...but he wasn’t there that night. Instead there was a taller, younger African guy. At first I ignored him, until he asked me, “Hey...Have you seen my dad anywhere?” I had no idea the man had a life outside of work, let alone a son. It was a real jolt.
After the the trash compactor business, the other task I was required to do was return to the store for cleaning. This entailed taking all the shit that people put in the incorrect aisles back to where they belonged, sweeping, mopping, inspecting shit for damages, throwing more garbage out, putting more stuff back to where it belonged, and then finally letting them know I was leaving for the night. Then I’d “punch out” my timecard on a machine that didn’t even have an accurate time, and finally got to leave. All that for $9.60 an hour.
Working at The Dollar Store were some of the greatest and worst times of my life. But as much as I hated that store, most of my co-workers, and even most of the customers: I’m glad I experienced it all. My mother was right about the character building thing. It honestly takes working like a slave and feeling miserable to come out the other end. There’s a whole culture right now of entrepreneurship, and Gary Vaynerchuk-inspired young people who think working for other people is lame. They post inspirational quotes about “working smart, not hard,” and “hustling,” and “doing shit you love.” It’s okay to feel that way, and I’d never tell anyone not to let themselves get motivated by something. But they could potentially be missing out on a huge opportunity to build character and learn about life by being completely miserable first. Learning how much you hate working for other people is a great experience.
The Dollar Store was the first time life made it completely clear to me that life is meaningless, most people care more about themselves than others, most people are not very smart, and we are utterly alone in the universe. These are life lessons best taught through a minimum wage job. I can honestly say the awful experiences made me a better person in the long-run. To this day, I’ll remember something that happened at the store and think to myself, “You survived that, you can survive pretty much anything now.” No one is going to come and save you: it’s up to you to take responsibility for your own happiness.
Another fundamental thing I learned was the value of a dollar. To this day, whenever I have to spend money on anything I feel guilty. Whenever I’m about to spend money on something irresponsible, I always have the thought, “17 year old you is very disappointed in your spending choices right now.” I could win a lottery tomorrow, buy a new Dodge Challenger (my dream car, the car I’ve wanted since I was 10), and still feel guilty about spending money on something I didn’t have to. If I was a billionaire I’d still thoughtfully consider every single purchase and compare prices. Because I was making so little at the store for doing so much work, every purchase I made had to be absolutely necessary.
One day after school I was hanging out with a friend getting something to eat. I bought a slice of tiramisu from a nearby bakery. It wasn’t the shitty frozen kind, it was made freshly that day by someone’s Italian grandmother. Probably in the same building. It looked like it had never been inside of a truck, or travelled. It was fucking FRESH, with new ones being made all the time. It called my name everyday I walked by it, and I finally decided to buy it. It was about $7.something.
I remember my friend asking me, “How much do you make at the store again?”
“$9.60 an hour. Why?”
“That means you worked over half an hour just to be able to afford that cake. That cake is like 45 minutes work of labour!”
“Jesus Christ, you’re depressing me. I can’t even eat this anymore.”
I felt awful. And to this day, when it comes to spending money, I still allow myself to feel that same awfulness I had when I was broke. I’ve found it to be a positive and negative in my life. Positive, because it’s responsible to save up your money at times (I guess). Negative, because spending it has instilled a great fear in me. Most successful people I’ve read about have said something along the lines of fear not being your friend. They all say stuff about being a risk taker. Like that old saying about having to spend money to make money. Being too frugal has no place in the mind of a successful person. The monitoring of my spending is a constant voice in my head that has helped and hindered me since leaving the store.
This is an excerpt from a longer work: The Dollar Store.
