Brooklyn

“Irasshaimase!”  
The gentlemen working behind the counter at Cafe Sushi greet us as we pass the bar and lead ourselves toward the back room.  I never know how to appropriately respond to this shouted greeting.  I usually nod, throw a half-hearted wave that barely reaches my belt, and quietly say "heyyy."  So long as it means "come on in", I suppose I've always responded correctly...by doing exactly that.

We sit down and Brooklyn orders sake and beers.  He diligently wipes his hands with the proffered steaming towel, even though we won't be eating, and sets it on the edge of the table.

"What's up?" he asks.

"Oh, nothing.  I just needed a break from that guy," I explain.

"Tell me about it, he's been staring at me with those beady eyes all day long."

Realizing that Brooklyn is talking about Cock Bombay, I quickly forget my customer and move on to more permanent matters.  

"Ah yes, the stare.  Explain to me how it is that a human can look exactly like Grouchy Smurf?"

"HE DOES!  I don't know, but that...is...him." He pours the newly arrived sake into my cup before continuing.  "Ughhh, he pulled me into his office this morning to tell me about how great the new guy is doing."

"Oh yeah, what's his name?" I probe.

"Alex.  He used to sell cars."

"Great."

"Yeah, he pulls me in to the office and says that Alex is already hitting his numbers and doing better than most the store.  And I'm thinking, 'of course he is, he's brand new!'  We'll see how long it lasts until he's got return customers clogging up his bandwidth.  I'll bet he didn't have to fix the cars he was selling, or explain the loan details after that first prorated bill arrives!"

Brooklyn and I have gotten along since we were hired, one day apart.  Much of our conversation subsists on football, current events and the altruistic insistence that the other is way over-qualified for his job.  Of course we both are...and aren't.  I think we're both mis-qualified for the job.  

The Company is so huge that the entire sales process, from greeting to escorting out(another page copied from the Nordstrom manual) is scripted.  Training involves the rote rehearsal of hitting every step in the sales process under the assumption that the customer is an obedient sheep with slutty-loose purse strings.  And who are the actors of such a script?  The lowest common denominator, of course.  

Instead of paying enough to get the best applicant pool, The Company is convinced that it can create a mechanized process that guarantees a sale every time.  Even when the feeblest of minds is tasked to play the part, success is guaranteed by the words on the page.  When process favors the lowest common denominator, everyone above that distinction is over-qualified for their job. 

Unfortunately, our jobs don't end there and we are also required to assist return customers who have problems with billing, equipment, service as well as feelings of loss, hopelessness and abandonment.  While new guys like Alex are totally unfamiliar with the concept of 'customer care', Brooklyn and I have a conscience.  It's the damnedest thing.  We take care of our customers, sale or no.  And as Brooklyn likes to remind me, "no good deed goes unpunished."  So we're really good at the part of our job that The Company pretends to care about, and totally mis-qualified for the part that looks more like a bottom line.

"Then he apologized to me for being late this morning," he continues.

"Oooh, he was late?" I marvel.  "That must have killed him to have to apologize!"

"Well, it was a weird apology.  It went like this: 'Hey Brooklyn, buddy, sorry to be the late one this morning, my kid was sick...the fucker.'"

"Wait, what?"

He acts it out again, "my kid was sick.  Pause. The FUCKER."  He finishes his beer for emphasis.

"His kid is what? Six?" I ask--as if there's an appropriate age at which you can change your child's nickname from "sport" or "champ" to that of "the fucker".

"I said I hoped he gets better and the guy looked confused!  Like he wanted me to say 'It's okay' instead!"

I shake my head as I leave cash on the table and get up to leave.  Suddenly, a second wave of surprise comes from the fact that I'm not at all surprised by Cock Bombay's words.  I shake myself out of it, shrug it off, and pass the counter as the gentlemen working behind it yell something out to us.  I imagine they say something along the lines of "Get the hell out of here, you losers!"

So we do exactly that.