Part-timer
I work part-time at this store that sells clever cards, candles, jewelry, knick-knacks and the like. The owner describes it as a "gift shop," but that term makes me think of a store where tourists would end up, by choice or not, after strolling through this historic neighborhood (which this, um, ain't), at which point we would foist cheap coasters and rubber placemats with silkscreened photos of Atlanta on them.


It's not a gift shop in that sense. But it is a gift shop in that there really isn't a damn thing in here I'd feel justified in purchasing for myself. Even with my 25% discount, I don't walk out of here too many days with a $65 wind-chime crafted from a doorknob under one arm, and a $35 leather frame under the other.


The people who come here can be roughly divided into two categories: Those who've put their names on the waitlist at the restaurant across the street, and those who've come specifically to buy someone a present or a card. [Intone robot-voice: "I need a giiift. Let us now go to the giift shop."]

Some of the people in the second group are regular customers, which always surprises me. The owner of the store does have an eye for unique semi-precious jewelry and table-lamps and the rest, but frankly, this place does not seem to me to be that different from any other store of its type in this or any other town in the nation.

Still, it's quite common for people--all women, at least so far--to come in and declare, "This is my favorite store!" I always smile and murmur vague sounds of agreement to mask my complete bewilderment at such a statement.



Special Concerns
Also to mask the dread. Because these are often the very the same people who require Extreme Hands-On Assistance. These are the ones who want me to tell them where this brand of glass globes are made, because they're allergic to Indonesian glass--or simply, to compare the price of that pretty little lamp on the very top of that bookshelf with that other little lamp on the top of the shelf in the opposite corner, requiring me to go in back to get the ladder.

They're the ones who come to check out the really big-ticket items, like the jewelry I'm always paranoid to take out of the glass case for fear of shoplifters--a big problem here.


Or if not the jewelry, it's an item for display only, so I have to search under a table or in the ultra-confusing Back Room for a copy already in its box to sell them.

Yes, I know. This is my job; I realize I have very little room to complain. But I'm still new here, so this stuff makes me nervous, and I prefer the more self-sufficient customers.

Worst of all are those customers who require my opinion. This is the moment that summons up the true acting skills, because honestly, I don't care whether you buy the brass hurricane lamp or the glass ladybug-shaped one--unless I don't know where the corresponding box is to the brass one, which is likely.
Then I'll point out that ladybugs are quite the chic thing among 20-somethings such as your niece. And if it's technically ten minutes after closing time and you're clearly nowhere near making up your mind, but instead asking to see that other lamp, too, and to line the three up in a row somewhere so you can see them all lit up--Well, the truth is that I don't feel comfortable enough to do anything yet but stew inside, but I will hate you. Real hard.

I won't do anything b/c I do like the owner, my boss, and I want her small business to succeed. I like to call her at the end of the day and report to her a larger daily total than she expected. I like the simple fact that she's so engaged in the business of her store that she wants: us to call. I've worked at small businesses in that eerie stage just on the verge of collapse, when the owner's nowhere to be found. Hell, Hunter worked at a restaurant once where the owner split town one day altogether.



My love. My shame.
There's only product here that garners my lust, and that's the beeswax lotion bar. It looks like soap, but when you rub it on your hands, it transforms into this sweet, moisturizing honeyed substance. I haven't worn any sort of perfume in a few years, but I swear I want to slide this freaking stuff all over myself and then put a bar of it in a paper bag so I can carry it around and huff it periodically.

Mmmm. Honey.



There's no "-ay" in forte, and there's no wrapping in mine.
Just one other thing, and I promise I'll shut up about all this, and that thing is: wrapping. When I interviewed for this job, the owner asked if I "knew how to wrap gifts." Already envisioning the complicated organza-tying and tissue-paper-arranging-action that lay ahead, I gulped out a tentative, "Yeah."

Sure, I know how to envelop a box in wrapping paper. My father was actually Mr. Anal in making sure each of his daughters could:

Wrap presents with near corners, and

Efficiently Pack a Suitcase

But neither of these are occupations in which I naturally excel. And indeed, whenever someone approaches the counter with something she wants wrapped, the heart palpitations commence.

The gift-wrapping itself it usually a 5-10 minute process involving much suppressed cursing on my part, as neat corners fail to present themselves time and time again and raffia ribbon spontaneously rips itself apart in my agile hands. And I daren't even make mention of that mysterious realm of expertise known as "Tying a bow."


The best customers are those who wander off as I wrap, who say, "Oh--No, that's fine," when I ask them if they want ribbon. The worst are those who tilt their heads at the finished product and say,

"Do you think you could...add a little more ribbon/tissue paper?"

On woman actually said to me,

"Do you think you could make it a little more lively?"

No, I thought. No, I could not.

"It's for a gift," she added. By way of explanation.

Ah-! And here I had thought the vanilla-scented stuffed frog was simply, oh, a car-repair part or something. Even though she'd told me it was a gift when asking me to wrap it in the first place. I dunno. Sometimes I like to gift-wrap my spare car-oil bottles in polka-dotted paper and then unwrap it myself once I've opened the hood. It's just like Christmas in miniature, you see.

I like my job here. I do. I'm not dealing with food, or hungry, hung-over customers. I don't have to mop. This is perhaps the biggest plus of all.

Then, there's the beeswax lotion-bar [see above]. Of course, I'm quite happy to be sitting 5 feet from the sample bar, so I can go sniff it every 20 minutes or so. Otherwise I'd have to keep coming into the store to do so, and that might get awkward.

The sense of cognitive dissonance here comes when I'm called upon to get excited about any other item in the store. The place, while one big orgasm for the Queer Eye set, is filled with Stuff--the kind of stuff I have absolutely no interest in filling my living space with. I like some of the handmade jewelry, but I don't have $200 to spend on a necklace, nor do I really mind that I don't.


You see.
The other week, we went to visit a friend of a friend in Cabbagetown, for hotdogs and cocktails. This guy lives in a shotgun-house he bought as a burned-out shell and built back up with the aid of a Historical Preservation grant. He's filled the place with really old, solid furniture and relics from historical Cabbagetown: photos from the turn of the century, a giant old door that someone once painted with protective Bible verses. He has a theramin and a '60s silver AirStream camper which doubles as a guest room in the cooler months. I sank into this comfy old worn chair, breathing in the house's mustiness that was stirred up by the lazy old ceiling fan, awash in rare contentment.

You see, Atlanta is a town that largely goes along with: Newer and Bigger and Shinier and more Disposable = Better. There are a lot of people with a lot of money who spend it on reproduction furniture and plastic surgery. There are a lot of art deco bars and bistros with cement floors, abstract art and uncomfortable chairs.

But this guy's coffee table was overflowing with historical picture books and dusty Lps. If I worked somewhere that sold stuff like that, my paycheck would be shot--but the thing is, at the risk of injecting Great Cheese, here, I don't know of any stores around here that've put a price-tag on the kind of atmosphere I like. It's more than the objects; more than the theramin and the collection of old globes. It's the implicit point that it's not the things. It's the freaking hotdogs and schlepped-together cocktails and funny stories and the music. That's everything, really.