Enter Janice (Part 2)

Sometimes I am helping my own customer when Janice tugs on my sleeve, apologetic about disturbing me, and asks for help.  After I finish with my transaction, I assist Janice with hers and often times am asked by the client if I can take over.  

I witness Janice take over two hours to upgrade a cell phone--existing customer, just new equipment.  I notice that every time she walks away from the counter to ask a question to a coworker, the customer throws his hands up in the air in frustration.  I see normally patient people grow crazy with agitation before my eyes.  I am helpless to assist because I have numbers to hit.  Janice has 6 months before she will be penalized for missing quota.  I will get written up.  Especially now that the ‘veteran culture’ is being changed, I have to watch my ass.  I can no longer help the helpless and it doesn't feel right.  I have to make what money there is and help as many customers who are waiting in line.

I take my lunch break around the same time Janice is taking her first 15 min break(of many).  In the hallway-cum-breakroom in the back, there is a graphed white board that we are to fill with dry-erase marked numbers throughout the day.  I post mine and pop my lunch in the microwave.  Because we stand for 7 1/2 hours per day on the sales floor, sometimes these breaks are necessary.  I usually hate taking them while customers are waiting, so this one has been a long time coming.  I grab my food and turn to the table that lines the already narrow hallway.  No vacancy.  There is Janice, no doubt pooped from her one transaction of the day and two other coworkers sitting in chairs.  This means I can’t even squeeze between them and the whiteboard to get anywhere.  I grab an empty cardboard box that lies near the backdoor and flip it over.  I sink in, half squatting to avoid its collapse.  It's more of a workout than a break.  I plop onto the floor.  I began digging into the leftover eggplant parmesan when I almost spit it out from shock.

“Whew, Lordy, what a day!” Janice started at 11am and still had 6 more hours to go but she needs a rest.  “I don’t know how you guys do it.”

I eat my food quietly on the floor, not wanting to say anything, not wanting to compare days.  The other two coworkers, Brooklyn and Miguel, are commiserating about their customers as well.  Brooklyn has a guy I could hear from across the room who had been demanding a new phone.  He dives right into the story.

“So this fuckin' guy comes in with a 6 month old Nokia 3230 and he says that he needs a new battery.  I tell him...I advise him...that we are out of ‘em.  He says, ‘well, find me one!’”  Brooklyn is logical, he is helpful, he diffuses these bombs like no one else.  

“So I get on the phone and I call the guys over on Melrose and they have it for sale.  The guy asks me how much and I say it’s 25 bucks for the battery.  The guy says he can’t believe we don’t have it here.  I try and make him feel better by telling him if we did have it, it would cost him $50 at our store.  The guy gets into me about how we’re always sticking it to 'im.  Keep in mind," he throws out some DeNiro hands, "I’ve already gone above and beyond by calling these third party guys to locate a battery because I know no other Company store has 'em either.  I tell him I’m sorry about that, but the good news is that they are holding a battery for him only a mile away.  He says, get this, he says, ‘I want you to give me a new phone.’” 
Brooklyn grows increasingly animated with the retelling of the story.  “I stop this guy and say, ‘Sir, I’m sorry we don’t have the battery that you came in here to purchase, but I found one for even cheaper that you can get right up the street.  The warranty center can mail you the phone if you want to go that route, but if you want the battery today, I would strongly urge you to go over to Melrose and pick it up.’  This guy says he wants me to either have the battery transferred to our store or for me to give him a new phone.  Obviously we can’t do either.”  Brooklyn stands up as I eye his vacated seat, then he finishes, “this guy stops himself and just decides he wants a new phone now.  He gets loud at me and yells ‘Listen, you guys sold me a phone 6 months ago and the battery went bad.  If you don’t have the battery for the old phone, I want you to give me a new phone for free.  And, since I know you can’t do anything, I would like to talk to a manager!!’”  

He sits right back down.

“So that’s what he’s doing now.”

I shake my head and keep eating when I hear a strange noise.  Hauntingly operatic sounds are coming from somewhere in the hallway.  I check the backdoor, thinking it might be the wind in the alley.  I undo the security latches and bolts and open the door and throw it open.  Nothing.  No wind to be found, I throw the cardboard boxes out and come back inside shaking my head.

“What’s up?”  Brooklyn throws his head up at me.

“Nothing, I keep hearing this weird sound.”

Brooklyn’s eyes get big and his face turns read as if I had just ruined a secret.  Miguel starts giggling.  Brooklyn laughs and has to turn around.  The noise is coming from Janice.  Janice, thankfully oblivious to all goings on, continues quietly singing hymns to herself in a terribly off-pitch operatic soprano.  Nice lady, awful voice.  I have to interrupt.  

“Janice,” I start, drawing attention to the whiteboard, “did you update your numbers?”

“Oh no, I should do that.”

Yes, you should....quietly.

She stands up to the board and grabs a red Dry-Erase marker.

“Let’s see....what does ‘ACT’ stand for?”

“Mmm...activation.”

“Okay, I think I got one of those.” She moves to the next line.  “What’s an “UP?”

“That’s an upgrade.  That’s when you extend an existing customer’s contract in exchange for a discount on the phone.”

“Oh no.  That’s what I did.”  She erases her mark from the “ACT” column and moves it to “UP” before continuing.

“Is ‘FPO’ when I sell something?”

“FPO stands for Features Per Opportunity.  Did you sell that guy a data package or text messaging plan?”

“No.  Is ‘APO’ when I sell something?” 

“Yes, if that something is an accessory.”

“Oh no.  None of those.”

I attempt to ignore the fact that these are terms that actually should be covered in training.  I somehow forgive that she doesn't know this.  I look up at my own line of pathetic numbers on the board.  Shit.  I cut lunch early and head back out to the sales floor.

Enter Janice (Part 1)

Janice is nice.  Janice is very sweet.  Janice might be the worst coworker I’ve ever had to work with.  With a stroke of irrationality and flexed muscle, The Bobble Head has decided to go over Cock Bombay’s head and make his own hire.  The Bobble Head took a look at the applicant pool and picked the sweetest smile with the gentlest voice.  Incorrectly guessing about what the customer is looking for, the Head has gone back on his word.  Instead of his promise that we should be able to assuage every concern by talking about 'the network', he now champions a new mantra-- “just be nice.”  I don't entirely disagree.  Kindness, understanding and compassion go a long way in most service industries. It's hard to argue with nice.  However, in this industry of temperamental invisible technology, a grasp on how it works(or rather why it doesn’t) goes a pretty long way too.

The Bobble Head doesn’t get it, because he doesn’t have it inside him, but honesty is the only policy the customer will fully agree with.  They have to.  Truth without bias is not a perception--it’s truth.  It definitely doesn't make The Company look better when I agree with the customer.  When I agree that a $100 monthly phone bill is outrageous for terrible service, I'm doing The Company no favors.  And yet, that’s why my own satisfaction rating is in the 97% range by the end of every year.  If I were to, as Cock Bombay would have me, explain to the customer that the survey they are taking is entirely about me, my scores would suffer.  The reputation of this company would drag mine down. 

Instead, I now explain honestly and with competence, that I’m sorry--that I agree.  I admit with just as much confidence that it might get better and usher in a quick warning that it probably will not.  No one is thrilled by these tempered expectations, but most, having already endured a tumultuous relationship of lies, are relieved to hear the truth.  "Have a party," I say.  "Invite a bunch of friends over to your house and see whose cell phone works.  Then go with that company.  We may not be your best option."
This shocking admission has lost some business.  More often, though, it has incited the response, "the service doesn't work in my house, but I'd rather buy all my phones from you."

Janice has mentioned that she is old enough to have a granddaughter.  I am polite enough not to know exactly what that means.  I do know that her daughter is dating the current Tour Manager of a ’70’s disco band and I suspect, at the risk of being called ageist, this makes Janice too old for our industry.  Janice finishes her two weeks of training and walks in the door with perfect hair, bright red lipstick around her smooth chocolate skin and her infectious smile.  She is a calming kind of person.  Your first look at Janice and you feel your blood pressure drop.  Your third shift with her will make you scream.

I don’t want to belabor the point because I feel guilty speaking ill of someone so sweet.  I ask that you, instead, focus on the men who put Janice in her current position.  See this as additional proof that the company placing her in our store, under the impression that anyone can follow the script and succeed, is beyond misguided.  The Company is out of touch and they put Janice out of her league.

Her third week on the job, Janice is still struggling with where the contacts are stored in the phone.  She has already deleted complete address books of three customers before she comes to me for help.  I explain to her that there are two storage locations for contacts in each phone.  
"There is a hard drive in the phone and a smart chip.  Most phones store the contact automatically to the phone memory because it is a more robust directory.  You can store physical addresses, birthdays, multiple numbers and e-mail addresses.  The smart chip can only hold about 250 contacts with single numbers per name."
I further encourage her that she should explain this to her customers because most of them think the contacts are on the sim card when, in fact, they are on the phone.  I explain nicely, “If you ask the customer where their contacts are stored, they are usually wrong because they just don’t know.”
She nods and smiles, understandingly before batting her eyes and gently grabbing my shoulder.

“What’s a hard drive?”

Not remotely...but sometimes, remotely.

I'm walking the floor of the Mandalay Bay Casino in Las Vegas when my phone rings.  I recognize the number and pick up within two vibrations.
"Hello?"
"Hey, Jason!  It's Cory.  I tried e-mailing you first but I didn't get a response."
"Oh yeah? I didn't get the e-mail.  When did you send it?"
"Five minutes ago."
"Ahhh...yeah, I'm not working right now and I don't get work e-mail on my phone.  What's up?"
"Something wrong with Jay's phone.  The internet doesn't work. I tried the usual tricks"
"Did he just change phones recently?" I troubleshoot.
"Usually that would be the case, but I actually think he's had the same one for a few weeks now."
"Is he traveling internationally?" I continue.
"He was.  He got back and I called in to take him off the international plan and put him on the regular plan."
"Okay, give me five minutes and I'll call you back."

I call into the store where I can get some actual help.
A greeter answers the phone and I let her know that it's me right away.  This relieves her of the obligation she feels to let me know about the gift cards, family finder feature and internet solutions we are offering for either your personal line or small business.  I cut to the chase.
"Who there has access to Tellect?  Is Brooklyn in?"  I know he isn't, it's Sunday.
"No..." I can hear her voice search around the store as she tries to remember the names of her new coworkers.
"Okay, fine.  Who's managing."
"Umm...it's ummm...Cock Bombay?"
"Uggh.  Okay, put him on."

I'm not asking for a favor for me.  I'm asking for a favor for a customer who already tried customer service and didn't get the appropriate action.  But Cock Bombay would love to do me a favor if it meant he could remind me of it down the line.

"Brother!!"  I can hear his smile beaming above the clanging slot machines around me.  "What's the honor to do me this time???"
"Hey, I need some help on the backend in Tellect for a customer.  Here's the number..."
"Hey, hey....you're not working today, brother!" 

Cock Bombay knows that when I'm not working, I'm not working.  There are very few calls I take from my house, let alone a casino floor.  When he calls me on the weekend to ask me to come in, my Company-paid phone line is as off-the-clock as I am.  However, when Jay-Z's assistant calls with a problem, I answer like it's a job offer.  And no, this is not because I view it as a means to accelerate my own rap career.  It's because Cory has always been cool to me.  I wouldn't answer the phone if he weren't.  So it's not a double standard.  It's just a standard.

"Can you check to see if, under the 'features' tab of the account, there's a SOC code that reads DATX?"
"Yes, brother, it's there."
"Can you remove it, please?"
"I can move it.  Do you have last four of the social?"
"It's not a social, it's a tax ID and it's 8068."
"Very good.  Okaaaaaayyyy."  I hear him labor to remember how to use the old system.  "All done."
"And hit 'save' and then 'refresh' for me, please."  Tellect is a fickle system.
"Okaaaaaaayyyy.  All set.  Anything else?  Who's the Shawn Carter Enterprise?"
"It's nothing.  Thanks."

I hang up and call Cory back, one or two minutes after I told him I would.
"He'll need to restart the phone and it should start working,"  I inform him.
"Dude," he responds with a laugh, "why was I on the phone with International Customer Care for an hour earlier??"
"Because you're lonely and have no better use for your time?"
"Haha....right.  You're the best, bro.  Next time you're in New York during a show, let me know."
"How 'bout I call you when Jay's in LA."
"Fair enough."

WMMC?

         Not quite ready to be fired again, damned fool that I am, I bolster my defenses and come up with some semblance of a plan.  It can't take much, right?  All I need to do is what each of those acrylic warriors in middle management do.  They manage.  They manage to get dressed every day.  They manage to endure being the subjects of berating conference calls every day.  They manage to utter smokescreens of excuses explaining missed metrics every day.  They manage to somehow keep their jobs every mind-blowing day.  My plan is to do as these managers do.  Get my superiors to lay out a step-by-step foolproof plan for success, follow it to the letter, and shrug my shoulders when the numbers don't add up.  Managers never get fired.  Ever.  And this is exactly how they do it.

         "Come in Mr. Jason!"  Cock Bombay is fat-kid-with-cake excited about this meeting.  "Take the seat there, brother.  What do I owe to this pleasure?"

          His feigned deference and bowing to me convince me that he was once on the receiving end of such behavior back in India.  His parody of humility ends and lowers his shit-eating grin to a level just below that of my own.

         "I need your help."  It doesn't kill me to say it as much as you might think.
         "Oh wow, now!  What is the surprise I see to have here!"  He's not at a loss for words, but their order is questionable.  His palm pledges allegiance to his mustard tie and he closes his eyes. "My help?"

          I stop him and continue while I still can "Yes, I'm having a bad month.  I feel like there aren't enough hours in the day to hit my numbers.  I feel like I'm helping everyone else in the store and my numbers are suffering.  I figured we could maybe come up with a game plan together.   And maybe I need a little motivation to get back on top again.  It's hard because I have this supposed seniority, but the new scheduling system arbitrarily selects a schedule--so that doesn't help me feel valued.  And I get paid the same as every new rep in here!  It's hard to get excited when my talents aren't being used and I feel like the best parts of me are being wasted here."

          I don't know what happened, I started sticking with my plan and here I am spewing out, of all things, the truth!

          His smile goes flaccid and he leans back in his executive business chair.  He closes his eyes and summons his fingertips to his face to rub out the answer.  There's no training class for this.  No certificates on these walls license him to deal with personal concerns from his staff.  He rubs as if to ask his magic crystal ball face, what would the Bobble Head Do?!? 

          I reach back and grab the office door.  Open-close-open-close-open-close I reintroduce oxygen to the room.  His eyes open and he is bright red and serious.

         "I don't want to sound like the broken tape here," he begins and I know I'm in for it.  "As manager, I don't control the schedule.  I don't control the pay!  And I can't control the motivation!"  He breathes and swivels around in his chair, looking around the room.

         "But I am going to help you." He reaches for a book from the tiny shelf above his desk.  "I have some good adwice for you."

          He puts the small, square book in front of me and continues, "The life is full of changes.  If you want to be a great leader, you have to follow the directive.  For me, I want to be the President someday! That's right!  But you can bet it on the bottom of the line, I must follow the directive to get there!  And at the end of the day, only you can be the motivation in your life." He points into the cover of the little square book with his index finger as he makes this last point on motivation.  He leans back again but this time keeps eye-contact with me to tell me he's done.
          Well, this was fun.  
          I'm dizzy, but manage to stand and make my exit.
         "Thanks.  You're totally right."  I pick up the book from his desk.  "I'm glad we're on the same page in understanding what our job responsibilities are where they, apparently, end."
          What's left to manage after pay, schedule and motivation??
         "I just need to work harder," I resolve.  He gives a satisfied grin.  To him, our session has been a runaway success.

          Leaving the room and crossing the sales floor, I look down at my new copy of Who Moved My Cheese?  I shake my head and go to read the next name from the list.

Cell phone emergency

I read the next name from the list.  “Hakim?”

“Hey man, how’s it going?  I need your help.”  This is not Hakim.

The man speaking to me now has rushed directly through the front door, passing the 10-15 people waiting in line with their names on the list and is shaking his phone at me demonstratively.  I am polite.

“Sir, did you sign in?”

“No...What?” Looking around, eyeing the sheet. “No!”

“Okay, sir, well there’s a sign in sheet right here and I would be glad to help you get your name on it so we can get through everyone in an orderly fashion.”

“Oh no, I don’t have time to sign in.  I can’t wait.  I’m illegally parked in the handicapped spot.”

It’s one thing to think you can park in the blue parking spot specifically designated for those of our customers who need greater assistance accessing our store.  It’s something else entirely to assume that such a transgression would be reason for expediting your place in line.

“Sir, there are a lot of legally parked people on the list in front of you.”

“You don’t understand, this is an emergency.”

“Oh, I’m sorry sir.”  I feign frantic.  “I didn’t realize it was an emergency.  Please follow me this way.” I purposefully parade him back through the patiently waiting masses to the demo phones.  “Any number of our phones here on display are capable of dialing 911 if you need help.  Here, you can use mine!”  

I take my smart phone from its holster and start dialing.  Before he can protest, I continue speaking quickly disallowing his interjection.  “What else can I do?  Can I get you anything?  Do you need First-Aid?”  He looks at me, bewildered.  He then speaks to me slowly, as if I’m the one who is failing to understand the situation.

“No, it’s a cell phone emergency.”

I drop the act and look at him seriously.  “There is no such thing, sir.  Put your name on the list and go park your car in the lot.”

“You’re a real dick.”

“Thank you, sir.”

There is a gentle applause from the line as he exits in a huff, gets in his (take your pick) Porsche/RangeRover/Hummer/Prius and drives off, freeing up the prime parking for those who truly need it.

I return to my counter to help Hakim, who has been considerably more patient, with what will undoubtedly be his own ‘cell phone emergency.’

Security (Part 2)

“That’s a nice headset,” he puffed, "you get it here?”
“Yeah, paid for it.”

“Who sold it to you?”

“Listen, Mr. Bombay, if it’s a problem, I’ll return it.”

“Just tell me who gave it to you.”

“I bought it.”

“Okay, brother, who did you buy it from.”

“I bought it from John and I have my receipt.  If it’s a problem, I’ll return it.”

“No, it’s no problem.”  He stomped out his cigarette and walked directly to his cage.

Within four days, Jerry had been relocated and John had been brought into the office.  John was told that he should be extra careful about transactions of this type and that this should be considered his verbal warning.  John expressly asked if he was getting written up and was assured nothing would happen at the time.  It didn’t stop Cock Bombay from laying into him.

“How long you been working here, John?”

“Four years.”

“Do you like your job?”

“Yes,” he promptly lied.  If this was just a verbal warning, it should be done by now.  This additional harassment was unnecessary.

“How much did you make last year?”

“What? I don’t know, 40?”

“I do know, John.  I have numbers here.  You made $38,000 dollars in the last year.  Not too bad.  Do you know what Humberto made?”

“I don’t think I should know.”

“$50,000.”

“Okay.   Why are you telling me this?”

“I’m telling you this because I want to give you the best example.  You can make money if you work hard.  It’s my job to be your manager.  Do you know what a manager is?  It’s a compound word.  Two words together, ‘Man’ and ‘Ager.’  First you must be a man.  I am a man.  That is the first part of being a manager.”

Cock Bombay never went on to explain what an “Ager” was.  We all have our theories.  To me, he’s so frustrating that I think he “ages” me every time he talks.  In response to him being a man, I must protest.  A man does not transfer a security guard because that's the only muscle he can flex where there’s no Union to stop him.  A man does not jump to uninformed conclusions that meet his desired end.  A man does not disclose an employee’s salary as a means of threatening another.  A man does not, when given pressure from the Bobble Head to clean house, go back on his word and terminate an employee for an offense that was said to end in a verbal warning. 

John has just been handed his final paycheck.  Cock Bombay has been store manager for too long without advancement.  He has been failing.  Feeling the weight of the acrylic piling up around him, he knows he is stagnating--even if he doesn’t know what the word means.  He has only one card left to play.  After 10 straight months of declining customer satisfaction numbers, team morale failing and the executives looking for an answer, Cock Bombay and the Bobble Head have developed a plan.  They have decided to blame the recent shortcomings on a comfortable, experienced veteran staff.  If only to buy themselves some time, they have asked permission to start over with fresh faces.  

Since the executives are so sure that it is the system, not those employed by it, that is the secret to success, they have agreed.  Those of us with 4-10 years of experience are on the chopping block.  Our expertise in phones, special circumstances and problem-solving are worthless.  In other industries, I get this.  In some cases, you can pay three newcomers the same salary as one veteran and possibly get your money’s worth.  But we are union!  That means I can't even get a raise.  In my tenth year of selling cell phones, I am making exactly the same hourly money as someone in their second year.  I am your money’s worth!  Instead, I have now started working twice as hard because I am answering questions from brand new coworkers every 10 minutes.  

I’m not lying when I say this job took me over a year to grasp.  And I don’t consider myself a slow learner.  There are variables you can never plan for.  It takes at least a year to learn all the avenues, the extra-company resources you need to use to expedite, the secrets, the passages.  Two weeks of training are thrown right out the window when you meet your first “these options are not acceptable!”  Training classes on customer service cannot prepare you for the customer who has been “paying thousands of dollars a month for 20 years and would simply like to be compensated for [their] loyalty!!”  No amount of role-playing will give you the tools required to handle the nervous breakdowns, the tears, the crying out of “you don’t understand, everything I have is in that phone.  My life is in that phone!!!"

Security (Part 1)

We enjoy the company of armed security in our store.  We have since 2008.  The intent of this weaponized presence is to discourage the armed robberies of thousands of dollars worth of mobile devices.  This is not entirely alarmist as there have been a handful of these robberies all over the nation--a couple of which came to a fatal end.  Yet, I believe there is a better response to potential terror than wasteful spending. 

When I think of how much money it is costing The Company to staff these retired policemen 14 hours per day, multiplied by over a hundred locations, I can’t help but think there’s a better use for that money.  Everyone knows it’s possible--develop a software that kills, disables, ignites or explodes stolen equipment the second the serial number is registered on the network.  If the major networks would agree to join forces in this venture, stolen phones would be worthless.  Instead, we’re hemorrhaging money on security--bleeding through the bandage.  The Company is also fostering a situation in which the consumer feels violated because a thief can turn profit on or use the stolen equipment.  

The third question after someone has a phone stolen is typically, “Can the person who took the phone use it?” The answer, for now, is still 'yes.'

Our store in the heart of Los Angeles, open seven days a week and closed for three major holidays, requires 4732 hours of security per year.  At the $50 per hour charged by a private security company, that’s $236,600 for our location alone.  There are 8 stores in the area, 44 in the district, and so on.  That’s 10 million dollars per year without leaving Southern California.  A discerning individual might suggest that dedicating a fraction of these expenditures to developing a way of preventing it would be money well-invested.  I know safety is always priority number one in public (just as accessory sales are priority number one in private), but this spending is absurd.  It’s time to make balanced decisions when it comes to risk prevention.  Consider the risk, evaluate the odds.  “Better safe than sorry” comes with a price that someone has to pay.  Remove the temptation and the sin will be avoided!  People will only steal what they can either use or sell.  Make the stolen product worthless and it won’t be worth stealing.  And you can't tell me we're protecting the accessory losses.  You remember the markup on those, right?

Oh, and in the event of a robbery during open hours, these security guys have strict orders to never give chase.  Not that any of them can--most are collecting pensions and worker's comp from the LAPD while they nurse an injury sustained on duty.

Our last security guard’s name was Jerry.  Ex-cop, always a marine, he was a nice enough guy, if a little talkative.  The security company was fine, but these guys were mercenaries with their own endgame in mind.  Jerry would stand by the front door, watching to see which cars pulled into the parking lot.  If they appeared to be expensive cars, he would approach the driver, ask them what they did for a living and then explain why they would need his security for it.  Jerry was always telling me that someday I would need personal security.  I appreciated his optimism, and I hope he’s right.  But he’ll have to forgive me if I don’t hire someone who is always looking for the better opportunity.  And hell, for $50 an hour, I can learn jujitsu. 

Jerry would unabashedly approach celebrities, start dropping all the names of people he’s protected and offer up his services for the future.  His loudest claim to fame was being on Tupac's security detail the night he was shot--something I, personally, would omit from my own resumé.  And, while I appreciated his entrepreneurial spirit, I often questioned his attention to his surroundings.  Demo phones were stolen from our sales floor weekly.  We would sometimes find the back of a phone just dangling from its supposed security device.  Chords were cut and thieves walked or ran out, depending on whether or not the alarm sounded.  Because Jerry was still in the middle of a law suit against the LAPD regarding his ankle injury, he wouldn't move a muscle.  Instead, he would secure the area and assure everyone that everything was okay.  He was more affirmation, less asset protection.  We should have hired a life coach.

One day, Jerry approached one of my coworkers to see what kind of deal he could get on a Bluetooth headset.  This headset, the one Jerry had his eye on, was retailing for $100.  My coworker, John, said he would see what he could do.  

At the time, John happened to be working with a lady who worked for the United States Postal Service(Jerry had no problem interrupting transactions and initiating conversation).  She was equally garrulous and struck up a friendly conversation with both Jerry and John.  USPS and LAPD had an instant connection as they both collected wages for loitering in a cell phone store.  USPS learned that Jerry was interested in the Bluetooth headset and offered her assistance.  Employees of the USPS get a 50% discount on all accessories in the store.  Some of them take advantage of this discount and spread the love around to friends and family.  Technically, as long as the transaction takes place on the proper account, we can sell as many as we like.  

John rang up the headset at the discounted price of $50 and off Jerry went to secure the store or find potential future employment.  John finished his transaction with the customer and we all eventually left for the day.  One week later, Cock Bombay approached Jerry out front and lit up a cigarette.

“That’s a nice headset,” he puffed, “you get it here?”

(cont'd)