Entry 20: How To Fail A Shop Floor Induction

I got turned away from a job today. It was one of the more interesting encounters in my recent memory.  To avoid any suits for libel (on account of the overwhelming popularity of this publication, obviously) I will alter some of the names and such. So, I went to an open interview with something approaching sixty other people. I was applying to cosmetics and smelly things shop, let’s call it, Delicious! As I vaguely knew, Delicious! was one of those preppy environmentally friendly places, crammed with nice smelling tut; essentially an overpriced-pinko retelling of The Body Shop.

 

So, an open interview, at Delicious!. What an ‘open interview’ comprised was beyond me though. I figured most interviews were open (apart from that time I said I enjoyed fencing in my spare time; that was a lie), but maybe this job just required a particularly high level of moral accountability. Whatever, I turned up anyway. I was at the back of the sixty-strong line, and as the throng was herded into the centre of the room, the door was closed firmly behind me. What happened next was a hazy blur. I can only really describe it by making reference to some sort of terrible marriage between Charlie and The Chocolate Factory and Deliverance. The staff were all stood on tables, laughing and clapping and cheering like the Sunshine Bus had broken down on the M28 and the fleeing occupants were attempting to hail passing traffic. One girl who was staring at us, her massive crazy eyes roving over us face to face,  was pouring some pinkish bubble bath from a jug, into another jug, and repeating all the while, something I think similar to “Oh a’ love these bubbles a’ do too”.  This salutation was met by further chuntering and cheering from the other members of staff, dotted around the room in formation, effectively kettleing us in the centre of the room.

 

Christmas music blared, and in recognition of this, a portly woman waving some loofahs to and fro called out “It’s just like Christmasssssssss!”. Although it definitely was not just like Christmas, unless Christmas is a celebration of psychosis and fear, in which case the semblance was uncanny. For a while nothing was said as this nonsensical crescendo of insanity washed over the rabble of, by now petrified, applicants. And then a woman who must have been manager, on account of her pointy-face (isn’t that like the law of something?) got our attention and laid down some home truths. Just your average schlock, these values you need, these hours you need to work, this attitude you need to have. Some people left, mumbling how they didn’t fit criteria for whatever reason, and to this the staff clapped in unison and actually cheered a bit again too, which was so utterly nonsensical and frightening that it was sufficient to root every other person, including me, to the spot. It became clear what you had to do, you had to find an item in the shop, and sell it to a member of staff. If they were satisfied, they would then send you on to the manageress, if you were crap then they gave you ‘positive feedback’ (i.e ‘That was awful, now please leave’). Fair enough. This was difficult for me since I would never buy any of the crap anyway, not when a sodding bar of soap shaped like a foot cost you four quid. Anyway, after getting into character as someone willing to spend money on this flowery exercise in the superfluous, namely my mum, I picked something that looked nice. You had to gear something that your best friend would like, but this failed to help narrow it down, since anything that could make her smell better would be fine, and pretty much everything in the shop would do that. I picked a sort of face scrub thing with salt and lime in it, like a tequila shot but in a pot and three times the price. I pitched it to a nice looking brunette. I remembered an episode of Friends where Ross moisturises with a sort of paste thing, so I used the word ‘T-Zone’ which seemed to go down well with ole’ Creepy McGee. She sent me to the manageress, and I was booked in for a shop-floor induction the following week. So far, so good. Also, soap-based hysteria. But still, I wanted a job.

 

Anyway, I didn’t think about it much, but sure enough the day blew round. The induction was relatively early in the day, and I got there about ten minutes early, like a real eager beaver. I spoke to an Asian lady who was at the till. She was quiet and fairly inanimate, and for these reasons I presumed she didn’t work at this place, but it turned out she did. “We weren’t expecting you till later” she said, as the inductions occur at one o’clock.  I assured her that they definitely were expecting me since that was when I was pencilled into the calendar. With a slight smile till lady slipped away and told me to wait there while she checked to see whether I was actually there for an induction or whether I was some crazy man who walks into shops and pretends to have inductions in ten minutes. She found, on inspection, that I was the former.  I shan't name this till lady, mostly, because I can’t remember it, but also because of what I said earlier. Let’s call her, ‘Meredith’, as that is undoubtedly the name of a real ball-buster.  ‘Meredith’ led me upstairs, and told me to pop my stuff on some clothes pegs. After I had put my bag and umbrella away I turned to face her and smiled. But she was not smiling back. And it was at this moment I knew, that something had not gone to plan. After licking her lips in a quick nervous action, like the movement of some small bird, Meredith said to me quietly;

“Do you want to step in the other room?”

Oh. This was not good. I hastily complied with Meredith’s demand. After closing the door, she turned to me and said, after some thought;

“Those are grey trousers”.

I paused at this. She was right, they were grey, a dark grey, the colour of dark pencil graphite. I know at the first meeting I was told to wear black and white. But I didn’t have black trousers, and jeans weren’t allowed. This stage would have been only a second out of maybe three of four. Was I to buy a uniform for a job that I was not even half way to having a chance of getting? For a job interview, definitely, but for something at least two steps before an interview, probably not. And so I wore grey pants instead. Lordy lordy.

“Oh, is that a problem?” I asked.

“I can’t let you on the shop floor like that” replied Meredith.

 

This took me aback. They were, after all, just grey trousers. “Can’t let” was pretty strong wording. Did she think I would just go and rape all the customers on the shop floor or something;  had I turned up smeared in the blood and sinew of a sacrificial yew, or was I just wearing grey trousers? I assured her that I could pop out and buy some new black trousers, since they were clearly somehow strongly linked to selling bath bombs. Meredith did not commit to this one bit. Instead she told me that, with regret, I was not going to progress any further, and that should I want to work at Delicious!, I would have to re-apply from the beginning, presumably, next year.  This surprised me, I didn’t think they would flat out throw me out the joint over the trousers. But Meredith was clearly not messing around here. I enquired as to whether I could merely be rescheduled for another time, and to this I received back only a quick shake of the head. Soon hereafter I was being trotted delicately out of the shop.

And so, that, was that. Delicious! had taught me a quick but memorable lesson on the values of wearing trousers of material darker than dark grey. I was not too upset; the weird soap-cult that comprised the rationale of the place seemed somewhat at odds with, well, basic humanity or reasonableness. And no one likes a man in an apron. Of course, there is perhaps, the tiniest trace of, you know, bitterness, here. After all, I was told to wear black pants (not dark grey, goddamit), and it was probably just Delicious! customer policy to not let me try again. Meredith was just doing her job, and you can forgive her the satisfaction of being able to cross off one from a long list of job applicants, whose inductions are probably making her work longer hours and generally be a bit of a pain. Still, it’s a hard pill to swallow when the colour grey totally screws up your day. So learn from this cautionary tale, the 21st Century equivalent of a Hans Christian Anderson yarn. If they say wear black, wear black. Or else you might find yourself dealing with someone who has a name as frightening as 'Meredith'.