Looking back on my time in retail reminded me of another odd recurring event: getting a tip. I’ve worked for tips a few times, mostly on even less pleasant jobs, but every so often in retail I’d help someone carry something out to their car, tie something to the roof, get an odd-shaped (or very large) purchase out the loading dock, or in one spectacularly weird case, put out an engine fire in their car, and the customer would want to give me a tip – which gave me a bit of a problem…
You see, as the Assistant Manager of the drug store, I was prohibited by corporate regulations from accepting any form of gratuity from a customer. Technically, so were the rank-and-file personnel, but since the officer responsible for enforcing those regulations was me, and there was no way I was going to call anybody making less than $8 a hour (which wasn’t much even then) on it, the only person in the store with any customer contact duties who was ever likely to face disciplinary action for accepting a tip was me. And, since a drug store never has enough line personnel to go around, the Assistant Manager is also the person most likely to take on any extra duties (like helping someone get their order loaded into their car) and thus the most likely to be offered a tip in the first place…
Of course, the larger ethical issue surrounding tips is when to offer one – and how much you should offer. On the one hand, many customer service personnel (notably waiters) are paid at below minimum wage (sometimes effectively nothing) because they are assumed to make their living on tips, and the government allows their employers to screw them out of a minimum wage on the grounds that it’s better for the business. On the other hand, we’ve all heard stories about (and most of us have experienced) people whose service was horrible who still expect a fat tip at the end of your transaction, whatever it happens to be. Some of them will get really aggressive about it, and retaliate for bad tips whenever they can…
I don’t have a lot of problems with this myself, mostly because anything egregious enough to make me want to stiff someone on a tip will also be bad enough that I’ll ask to speak with their manager and do something (potentially, at least) much worse. Or, in extreme cases, I’ll cancel my order, pay for anything I’ve actually received thus far, and walk out, never to return. If I’ve stayed all of the way through dinner without raising a stink, I’ll give somebody a base-level tip just for effort; and if they’ve made any effort at all to do a good job I’ll try to reward them for it. But that’s just me; you’ll see a similar behavior pattern in anyone who’s ever worked for tips…
The thing is, the people who object to having to leave a tip on purely financial grounds are kidding themselves. If we abolish the laws that allow employers to pay sub-minimum wages to their personnel, all that will happen is that menu prices will rise to cover the higher wages (and massive payroll tax increases), lowering the number of people who can afford to eat out and eliminating any chance these employees might have had of earning a better living. Your tip responsibility might be smaller, but the price of your dinner will be larger, and all of the same people will go on being screwed…
In the long run, businesses that take care of their employees do better than those that do not – and I could show you the research that proves it, if any of you actually cared. For myself, when I was the Assistant Manager of the drug store and someone gave me a tip I’d usually use it to buy snacks for my crew, which led to the practice of keeping a “munchies fund” in the break room, where all of the management team (including the line supervisors who reported to me and the store’s higher-level managers) contributed “found money” like tips to a fund that kept our people in cookies and chips -- which led to a measurable increase in morale whenever I was on the manager’s desk…
It’s worth thinking about…
Monday, March 9, 2009
Saturday, March 7, 2009
Closing Time, Part II
The story continues:
One of my crew went over to the door to see what the problem was; as I counted out the safe, I could hear him trying to communicate with whoever was out there. Things rapidly got louder and louder, before the crewman came back over to my desk. “He wants to speak to the Manager,” he said.
I looked up from the change drawer. “What’s the problem?” I asked.
“He says he has to get something from the pharmacy – right now!” the young checker replied.
I glanced over at our pharmacy, which had its own security gate and had been locked for an hour or so, since the pharmacy closed at 9:00 and the Pharmacy Manager had gone home shortly thereafter. “Tell him the pharmacy closed at 9,” I suggested.
“I did,” my crewman replied. “He says it’s a matter of life or death; he has to have that medication now; and he wants us to unlock the pharmacy and get his meds out.”
I snorted derisively. Only the Pharmacy Manager is allowed to have the key; in theory, if I’d had a pharmacology doctorate and a narcotics license the company MIGHT have considered giving me one – but there’s no way to tell, as this had never happened. Why anyone with those credentials would consider working as an Assistant Manager for about a quarter of the pay is beyond me. I swung the safe door closed, and scrambled the dial. “All right; let’s go talk to the man,” I sighed. About once a week somebody would refuse to believe we were closed and keep knocking on our door until we told them to go away, but I couldn’t remember anybody insisting that we both open the store and open the pharmacy for their convenience.
The man outside our security gate was a large, beefy fellow with a red face, who looked angry enough to start chewing on the bars. “I’m sorry, sir, we’re closed,” I told him.
“What do you mean, closed?” he howled. “On television it says you’re open 24 hours!”
Company advertising at the time did emphasize that we had more 24-hour locations than any other chain in Southern California, but it had never stated that ALL of our locations were open 24 hours a day. Some customers just liked to assume that they were, because this required less effort than reading the posted “Operating Hours” sign on our door. I pointed to the sign now. “Not at this location, sir,” I replied. “We close at 10:00 every night.”
“Bulls—t!” he screamed. “Open up! I need my prescriptions!”
At this point I really had to wonder what he thought was going on. Expecting us to open the store back up especially for him would be one thing – that’s simple arrogance and entitlement, and we saw that every day. But this fellow really seemed to believe that we had closed the store – this one time! – and put up a fake hours sign and everything just to thwart his will. “Sir, the pharmacy closed an hour ago, see?” I replied, pointing to the sign (which also had the pharmacy hours). “I couldn’t let you into the pharmacy if I wanted to, I don’t have the keys.”
I can’t tell you exactly what his reply meant, because not all of it appears to have been in English. Some of it probably involved calling me and my crew names, and I’m pretty sure some of it involved threats. I turned to the young crewman standing next to me. “Did you hear all of that, Mr. Liu?” I asked.
The youth was a bit wide-eyed, but he nodded. “Yes, sir,” he confirmed.
Outside, the man was pounding on the bars, swearing and hollering about what he was going to do when he managed to break them down. “Good,” I replied. “Go and dial 911, and tell the dispatcher what this man just said. Tell them we need the police department, soonest.”
“Yes, sir!” the kid replied, and he ran to the nearest phone. I was about to start moving the remaining crew into the back room, which had another door we could lock behind us as well as access to the loading dock through the back door, when there was a flash of lights from outside and the whoop of a siren. A police car pulled up behind the man, and two officers got out and began walking toward him. It would make for a better story to tell you that there was a dramatic hand-to-hand battle, ending with a tasering or a beating, but what actually happened is the man took to his heels the moment the policemen got out of the car, and they drove off after him. We never saw him again…
One of my crew went over to the door to see what the problem was; as I counted out the safe, I could hear him trying to communicate with whoever was out there. Things rapidly got louder and louder, before the crewman came back over to my desk. “He wants to speak to the Manager,” he said.
I looked up from the change drawer. “What’s the problem?” I asked.
“He says he has to get something from the pharmacy – right now!” the young checker replied.
I glanced over at our pharmacy, which had its own security gate and had been locked for an hour or so, since the pharmacy closed at 9:00 and the Pharmacy Manager had gone home shortly thereafter. “Tell him the pharmacy closed at 9,” I suggested.
“I did,” my crewman replied. “He says it’s a matter of life or death; he has to have that medication now; and he wants us to unlock the pharmacy and get his meds out.”
I snorted derisively. Only the Pharmacy Manager is allowed to have the key; in theory, if I’d had a pharmacology doctorate and a narcotics license the company MIGHT have considered giving me one – but there’s no way to tell, as this had never happened. Why anyone with those credentials would consider working as an Assistant Manager for about a quarter of the pay is beyond me. I swung the safe door closed, and scrambled the dial. “All right; let’s go talk to the man,” I sighed. About once a week somebody would refuse to believe we were closed and keep knocking on our door until we told them to go away, but I couldn’t remember anybody insisting that we both open the store and open the pharmacy for their convenience.
The man outside our security gate was a large, beefy fellow with a red face, who looked angry enough to start chewing on the bars. “I’m sorry, sir, we’re closed,” I told him.
“What do you mean, closed?” he howled. “On television it says you’re open 24 hours!”
Company advertising at the time did emphasize that we had more 24-hour locations than any other chain in Southern California, but it had never stated that ALL of our locations were open 24 hours a day. Some customers just liked to assume that they were, because this required less effort than reading the posted “Operating Hours” sign on our door. I pointed to the sign now. “Not at this location, sir,” I replied. “We close at 10:00 every night.”
“Bulls—t!” he screamed. “Open up! I need my prescriptions!”
At this point I really had to wonder what he thought was going on. Expecting us to open the store back up especially for him would be one thing – that’s simple arrogance and entitlement, and we saw that every day. But this fellow really seemed to believe that we had closed the store – this one time! – and put up a fake hours sign and everything just to thwart his will. “Sir, the pharmacy closed an hour ago, see?” I replied, pointing to the sign (which also had the pharmacy hours). “I couldn’t let you into the pharmacy if I wanted to, I don’t have the keys.”
I can’t tell you exactly what his reply meant, because not all of it appears to have been in English. Some of it probably involved calling me and my crew names, and I’m pretty sure some of it involved threats. I turned to the young crewman standing next to me. “Did you hear all of that, Mr. Liu?” I asked.
The youth was a bit wide-eyed, but he nodded. “Yes, sir,” he confirmed.
Outside, the man was pounding on the bars, swearing and hollering about what he was going to do when he managed to break them down. “Good,” I replied. “Go and dial 911, and tell the dispatcher what this man just said. Tell them we need the police department, soonest.”
“Yes, sir!” the kid replied, and he ran to the nearest phone. I was about to start moving the remaining crew into the back room, which had another door we could lock behind us as well as access to the loading dock through the back door, when there was a flash of lights from outside and the whoop of a siren. A police car pulled up behind the man, and two officers got out and began walking toward him. It would make for a better story to tell you that there was a dramatic hand-to-hand battle, ending with a tasering or a beating, but what actually happened is the man took to his heels the moment the policemen got out of the car, and they drove off after him. We never saw him again…
Friday, March 6, 2009
Closing Time, Part I
I picked up the intercom phone and hit the “General Attention” button. A loud tone sounded through the public address system, causing the crew and some of our less addled customers to look up. “Attention Sav-on shoppers!” I cried, in what I hoped was a friendly tone. “It is now closing time! You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here! Please begin making your way toward the exit; our store will re-open tomorrow morning at 8:00 sharp for your shopping convenience.”
The year was 1995, and I was the Assistant Manager (sometimes called the “Front-end Manager,” “Floor Manager” or “Assistant General Manager”) of the Sav-on drug store located in Studio City, California. I’ve mentioned this job a few times in this space; I took it as a stop-gap when the cable television company I was working for during business school was purchased and my job (my entire department, in fact) was eliminated the Friday before graduation, leaving me sort of at odds and ends, with rent to pay. I spent a year in the drug store chain, applying to real companies and looking for an actual MBA job, which you don’t have to tell me is what I should already have been doing during the final months of the MBA program. It’s just that I hadn’t expected the owners to sell the company out from under me for at least a few more years (in fairness, neither had they!)…
As previously noted, it was a crappy job featuring low pay, unpleasant (and occasionally dangerous) working conditions, preposterous hours, and a wait for promotion of around six times longer than the recruiter who recruited me for the job said it would be (e.g. 12 years for promotion to General Manager, not two, and waits of 25+ years for Corporate, not 4), and I would have left sooner than I did except for two factors: the overspecialization of MBAs and devaluation of the degree had already begun, and the fact it’s difficult to devote the time to a proper job search when you’re working between 55 and 75 hours each week…
A secondary factor, it must be conceded, is that the job quite unexpectedly turned into a splendid field laboratory and practicum in both management and leadership issues, the lessons from which would serve me well when a real management job in an actual corporation finally arrived. It was also a source of continual amazement and wonder, as I confronted the general public in a front-line customer service role – and I don’t mean that in a good way…
The night in question was a typical example: despite the fact that I had been making closing time announcements at 9:30, 9:45 and 9:55 (as mandated in the Assistant Manager’s handbook) when I called for closing time, there were still about a dozen customers wandering through the aisles of the store, staring at suppositories and hair-care products as though they (the products, not the customers) had just been handed down from on high by archangels with golden wings. It was now my job to go round them up and gently suggest that since our store was closed, and our registers had gone off-line at 10:00, now might be a good time for them to toddle on home, come see us tomorrow, there’s a good customer. Most of them had ignored the announcements altogether, and were very surprised to be told that our store was closing (“don’t you stay open 24/7?”), but a few of them were quite aware of the time and the fact that we were closed, and simply expected we would make an exception for them…
After we’d convinced the last of our zombie customers that yes, they really did have to leave now, and no, I wasn’t going to keep the entire crew sitting around while they made their final $8.89 purchase, we locked the doors and began cashing out the registers and setting up for overnight conditions. It was just about then that there came a loud, frustrated shout of outrage from the front door, and someone began pounding on the security gate hard enough to make the entire building shake…
(To be continued…)
The year was 1995, and I was the Assistant Manager (sometimes called the “Front-end Manager,” “Floor Manager” or “Assistant General Manager”) of the Sav-on drug store located in Studio City, California. I’ve mentioned this job a few times in this space; I took it as a stop-gap when the cable television company I was working for during business school was purchased and my job (my entire department, in fact) was eliminated the Friday before graduation, leaving me sort of at odds and ends, with rent to pay. I spent a year in the drug store chain, applying to real companies and looking for an actual MBA job, which you don’t have to tell me is what I should already have been doing during the final months of the MBA program. It’s just that I hadn’t expected the owners to sell the company out from under me for at least a few more years (in fairness, neither had they!)…
As previously noted, it was a crappy job featuring low pay, unpleasant (and occasionally dangerous) working conditions, preposterous hours, and a wait for promotion of around six times longer than the recruiter who recruited me for the job said it would be (e.g. 12 years for promotion to General Manager, not two, and waits of 25+ years for Corporate, not 4), and I would have left sooner than I did except for two factors: the overspecialization of MBAs and devaluation of the degree had already begun, and the fact it’s difficult to devote the time to a proper job search when you’re working between 55 and 75 hours each week…
A secondary factor, it must be conceded, is that the job quite unexpectedly turned into a splendid field laboratory and practicum in both management and leadership issues, the lessons from which would serve me well when a real management job in an actual corporation finally arrived. It was also a source of continual amazement and wonder, as I confronted the general public in a front-line customer service role – and I don’t mean that in a good way…
The night in question was a typical example: despite the fact that I had been making closing time announcements at 9:30, 9:45 and 9:55 (as mandated in the Assistant Manager’s handbook) when I called for closing time, there were still about a dozen customers wandering through the aisles of the store, staring at suppositories and hair-care products as though they (the products, not the customers) had just been handed down from on high by archangels with golden wings. It was now my job to go round them up and gently suggest that since our store was closed, and our registers had gone off-line at 10:00, now might be a good time for them to toddle on home, come see us tomorrow, there’s a good customer. Most of them had ignored the announcements altogether, and were very surprised to be told that our store was closing (“don’t you stay open 24/7?”), but a few of them were quite aware of the time and the fact that we were closed, and simply expected we would make an exception for them…
After we’d convinced the last of our zombie customers that yes, they really did have to leave now, and no, I wasn’t going to keep the entire crew sitting around while they made their final $8.89 purchase, we locked the doors and began cashing out the registers and setting up for overnight conditions. It was just about then that there came a loud, frustrated shout of outrage from the front door, and someone began pounding on the security gate hard enough to make the entire building shake…
(To be continued…)
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