My good pal and sometimes stalker Kelly has a post today about a summer job she once had which she describes as "hella lame". As always, it's a marvellously entertaining post from a gifted writer, and as so often happens when she puts words to the screen, it triggered some strong memories for me.
Now, normally when that happens, I end up writing an overly-long comment that ends up looking like I'm trying to one-up her on her own blog, which - while I'm certainly not above that kind of thing - really, it's not my intention. But it always feels like I'm all "Me too! Me too!", so I've decided - this time at least - to spew my memories here.
When I was in University, I had - and I don't think this is an exaggeration - the Best. Job. Ever.
Wanna know what I was PAID to do? I was paid by the T. Eaton Co. to break stuff.
Seriously. I was paid to smash, mangle, bend, fold, mutilate, crack, crease, shatter, deface, and render inoperative a broad variety of perfectly good consumer products. The tools on my bench included an eight pound sledgehammer, smaller hammers (for the precision work), chisels, utility knives, an axe, and a variety of crowbars.
Now, I'm sure some of you are wondering "Should I have some of that ice cream in the freezer?" I can't help you with that, and I don't know why you brought it up. Had you instead been paying attention, you'd now be wondering why on earth a major Canadian retailer would hire a promising young university students to break shit.
The T. Eaton Co. - known to Canadians simply as "Eaton's", was the major Canadian retailer with stores across the country in every major city and town. But Canada's a vast country, and a lot of towns aren't big enough for a major department store. So four times a year, every Canadian home would get an Eaton's Catalogue.
The Eaton's mail order centre was located smack dab in the middle of Canada - Winnipeg, Manitoba - my home town. In an ugly, boxy, windowless eight story building downtown, hundreds of workers processed thousands of orders every day from every tiny corner of the country.
Eaton's was known for being the very first retailer in the world to institute a no-questions-asked, no-fault return policy: "Satisfaction Guaranteed or Money Refunded". No exceptions, no loopholes, no excuses, no hesitation. If you were not satisfied - for any reason - with what you bought at Eaton's, you brought it back and you got your money returned on the spot.
What that meant is, a lot of stuff came back - returned because the customer found it for two bucks less at Sears, or because his wife found out he blew a wad on a new TV and hit the roof, or because "it looked good in the catalogue, but it was creepy when I got it home and put it on the table and the eyes followed me around the room so I had to put a towel over it". Or for no reason at all. It was great for the customer, and because people felt they could shop at Eaton's with confidence, it was good for the store, too.
There was a hitch, though. While the store was happily returning customers' money with no questions asked, the store's suppliers often did not share that policy. They asked questions. Important questions, like "Why should we have to pay for your policy?" Often the suppliers would say to Eaton's, "Screw you and your "customer is always right". We're not taking anything back from you unless it's damaged."
Enter Nilbo, grinning evilly.
I would come in to work and there would be a huge bin of merchandise - watches, toys, sporting goods, appliances, tools, clothing .. you name it. Every item in perfect condition. Until I got done with it.
I took pride in wielding the perfectly sized tool (oh, grow the hell up!) for any specific job. If I had to crack the crystal of a watch, I wouldn't use a big-ass hammer; I'd use a tool far more delicate. Just enough to get the job done.
I was creative. I took pride in my work. And i loved every destructive second. When the mail order centre closed and I lost that job, I was devastated. I could not imagine any future job paying me to do something so deliciously wrong.
I learned a lot that year, and not just from the professors at the University. I learned about some intricacies of commerce; I learned that I never ever wanted to work in a warehouse again. And I learned that if we want to make buildings that no terrorist can harm, we should offer the contract to the Fisher-Price Company.
And the Fisher Price people? Well, they may not have any arms and legs, and that's tragic. But my God, they are tough. Nigh on indestructible.
I loved that job.
Recent Comments