Crap King
I don't really remember exactly why, but one day a few months ago I was promoted to "King of the Crap". I didn't get the raise that I thought I was getting, but I was almost fully responsible for managing all the non- clothing crap in the store. God, it was hard to hold back my excitement when the word came from the head offices. In two months I managed not only to get hired as an assistant manager by The Salvation Army , but now I was given this holiest of holy responsibilities. Before my coronation I was mainly the all over lackey, doing bits and pieces of everything with no set plan or goal. Now I was King.
The manager and I knew the orders from downtown were to be basically ignored, they contradicted themselves dialy, and they were always bitching about something for nothing; but this was different. I was told how my day was to go from arrival to final departure. There was alot of free space, being managment to do what I wanted-go outside and smoke- but I was ordered to take over the pricing and collecting of bric-a-brac.
Soon my days began to take on a Christmas like aura. Each morning the truck would arrive with a delivery of stuff. I'd help the manager price the obligatory clothes, thining the whole time of the gift boxes of old shoes and books that awaited me. If I was lucky I'd get boxes of fancy stuff that hadn't been broken during delivery.
After we finnished with the clothes I'd grab my black marker and get to it. Oh, the lovely things to be discovered while sifting through box after box of donations. People give literally everything to the Salvation Army. I was the person chosen to price charity. It was an continues to be an evil power.
I didn't take long for me to meet our daily customers who either collected or resold the items I priced. I was a friend to each. They had to be nice to me so I would give them deals on stuff, and keep them in mind "in case something really nice ever shows up". I befriended them all- the glass ladies, the record collectors, the electronics geeks, the television guy, the bike guy, each became a friend.
I hated some of them so I would price their king of stuff higher. People I liked got a better deal. Power began to make me biased. You were either in or out. I started living off the power of pricing crap. I could either make or brake people's petty little day's. "Sorry mam, them's pfaltscraft dinnerware, I can't let it go for under forty bucks. You'll have to wait until it goes on sale."
I only got paid five bucks an hour, which sucked, so I knew full well how much these customers were making. On Welfare check day we always made more money. I could keep these people from getting stuff by pricing it high. "I realize your kid needs a thermos, but that's a "Scooby Doo" from the 70's, It's worth twenty bucks."
Soon the power became too much. My head was swooning from trying to remember all the different collectables, and how they're marked, or who made what, or how to tell old white glass from new.... I started marking everything a dollar, and selling it to whoever came in first. Dealers and collectors stopped talking to me. But our sales didn't go down.
I realize now that my power was only an illusion. Knowlege might be power, but power is evil. I don't pay attention to what comes in and out of the store anymore. If I see a cool record I listen to it for a few days, then put it out there with all the other dollar albums. I thumb the old books, and wipe down the china, but price it all cheap. People need to know that I care.
