The Summer of Sam Walton: Pt 1
In June of 1997 I applied for my first job ever without
any thought to what I would be doing, who I would be doing it for, or
whether I could be doing better things. Three days later as I sat in a
cold empty room, where fluorescent lights reflected off recently waxed
linoleum floors, a television spoke to me. “You’ve picked
a great place to work!” it told me with the sort of enthusiasm that
can only be faked. I learned that this counterfeit eagerness would be
an important part of my life for the next few months. Every employee shown
in this video conveyed it accurately, saving all unkempt and unsavory
emotions for their home lives. These employees were perfect.
The videos told me that Unions were evil. Small mousey men in overcoats
attempted to start them in order to steal my money. I learned of the ‘corporate
profit sharing plan’, which allowed you, if you chose to do so,
to receive a portion of your paycheck in company stock. Finally, I was
overwhelmed and confused by their health insurance brochure. After three
hours of video training, I began my career as a stockman.
I was presented with a brand new blue vest. On the back it said “Our
People Make the Difference” and on the front it said “Wal-Mart:
Every Day Low Prices.”
When I slid on that blue Wal-Mart vest that day, the only unhappy thought
in my mind was that they didn’t have my name tag ready yet. I set
out to learn how to be the best stockman I could be. I was trained by
Jessie, a 40 year old man with a severe learning disability who I never
took the time to get to know. He taught me first how to safely clean a
blood or fecal spill. I wrongly assumed these skills would never be applied.
He showed me where the cleaning products and brooms were kept. He walked
me through the five steps to make a hazardous spill safe for customers.
Finally, he taught me the four jobs of the stockman. 1. Bathrooms 2. Carts.
3. Sweep. 4. Everything else.
Stockmen didn’t stock, and they weren’t always men. I’m
sure Wal-Mart’s changed the name of the job by now, but they were
a bit behind the curve on politically correct, let alone at all accurate
job names, just like they are still behind the curve on treating their
employees like actual people.
I didn’t mind, nor did I usually notice, the many times when I was
denied my rights as a worker. I was, and still am, a perfect worker. When
people tell me to do stuff, I tend to just do it. Really, it’s surprising
I’ve been able to free myself from retail at all.
So I sold my hours to Wal-Mart for $5.15 a piece and hardly ever contemplated
the relationship. I was grateful, they were grateful. I was fulfilled,
more fulfilled than I have ever been at any other job. Now, many years
later, I’m ready to look back on all those hours I sold to that
corporation. I want to remember the worst parts, the best parts, and realize
how I fit into a machine that I now consider to be certifiably evil.
In the next couple weeks I’ll walk you through the labyrinth of
my Summer of Sam Walton. I’ll stand on the step that says ‘This
is not a step,” I’ll learn the feel of a Wal-Mart cart as
if it were my lover, and I’ll utilize and hone my skills in fecal
spill management. Come with me, back in time, to when Wal-Mart was my
life. I’ll see you next Wednesday.
For a full year I wrote a weekly column for a daily paper in Boulder CO. I wrote about being young, poor and green, and the column was widely loved throughout the city. It remains one of the most rewarding things I've ever done.
If you've got some time on your hands...check 'em out.
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