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- Confessions of a Fixer: How one former coach perpetuated a cheating scheme - Sports Illustrated
- Crime Fiction
I leaned in to the good feeling, and into my role: I was the numero uno Happy Shopper, there to furnish my lovely life with deals. W hile I looked at watches, I talked with a guy named David, who told me of his dreams. He proceeded to describe data entry work in terms so boring they made me want to slam my head into the wall, and he sounded smug about it.
He took evident pride in his pragmatism, that his goals for modest advancement lined up seamlessly with the basic corporate opportunities available to him. Whenever the baseball player said this, I wanted to grab him by his shoulders and ask him who taught him to say that, about the scotch and the girl, because I refused to believe a happy, healthy year-old brain could have originated that thought. Here, surrounded by displays of bargain-priced luxury watches, I wanted to grab David by the shoulders and ask him who taught him to look forward to data entry.
After I cycled through the entire store twice, my good feeling ebbed. Our shift was four hours long, and my legs were tired from standing and walking. I was hungry, though not so hungry that I wanted to join the boys outside and liquefy my bowels with a street hot dog. I examined some sneakers that looked like technicolor marshmallows and checked the time. I was devastated to discover we had not yet cleared the two-hour mark.
I squatted down in the shoe aisle in the position of a child crapping his Pampers, not at all how a Fun, Happy Shopper should behave, but the store now struck me as unbearably oppressive. I had never shopped in a department store for even one hour before, and certainly never in the dissociative state that I now occupied: a shopper, but what is a shopper who cannot purchase? I rode the escalator back down to Accessories. My mind raced. This was my third trip down to the watches in an hour. I tried to look at watches with a renewed air of earnestness. I tried to believe I was really there to buy a combination digital-analog Polo by Ralph Lauren wristwatch.
There are two couches in Century 21 Philadelphia, and they are the only places to sit in the entire store.
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By hour three, these couches were already full of temps slumped over in a loose-muscled posture that suggested deep exhaustion. Over by the cash registers, Rhonda had lost her mind. The store was getting to all of us. I sat down. From here I had a view down the aisle, and I could observe the handful of temps who were still making their rounds in earnest. No one could ask him to do a better job than he was doing: He looked thrilled to be there, and had the stamina to keep shopping after the rest of us had fallen to our knees in the aisles.
He was executing the role of Fun, Happy Shopper perfectly, but it was hopeless. There was no end to this, and no point. Someone was under the gun to generate walk-in traffic for the store, so money was spent to bring in people who decidedly did not have money, who were then instructed to pretend that they happily, definitely did. Someone at Century 21 Corporate? The vacancy of the exercise made my stomach hurt. It felt like we were waltzing with the employees, all of us keeping up appearances, mimicking the act of retail, but incapable of completing it.
A t the three-hour mark, temps began to cut and run. You know what? Fuck this. The retirees waited a little longer, but they too drifted down the escalators, wearing quiet, drowned expressions. Then it was just me and the waistcoats. It was unclear if any supervisors were still in the store. On one hand, I was horrified at the prospect that I might lose access to future temp jobs by leaving too early — the only thing worse than this sort of mindless temping was not having access to it when you needed it.
On the other, my head felt as though the brains had been scraped from it and replaced with vanilla pudding. I was going to lose cognitive function if I remained here much longer. I hovered by the door, next to a perfume display. I looked about for supervisors that might still be lurking, waiting to report back to John on my delinquency. I saw none, and broke for it. The chokingly humid afternoon felt wonderful. The grime, clutter and disgruntled citizens of downtown Philadelphia were a pleasure to encounter after the sterile and relentlessly cheerful atmosphere of the store.
I would work dozens more bad jobs before I understood that the cycle had its own inertia, and without extraordinary effort on my part, it would not stop. I would work many more after that, listening to the universe laugh at the fact that I thought I could stop the ride just because I wanted to get off. I was exhausted, and I took it with an overwhelming sense of gratitude for the luck that brought it my way. For now, I had another temp job lined up for the next day, and nothing on my schedule until then. We humans are far more complex than the news headlines and clickbait would have you believe.
Let the Narratively newsletter be your guide. Love this Narratively story? Sign up for our Newsletter. Send us a story tip. Become a Patron. Follow us. I was standing on an overturned milk crate on Bourbon Street, in face paint and a ball gown.
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The world was a blur. My body was entirely still — one hand holding out my huge skirt and the other a paper fan, frozen mid-flutter.
A group of frat boys appeared from the milling crowd around me. They wore Mardi Gras striped polo shirts in purple, green and gold, though it was October. Plastic beads winked on their necks, and they all gripped neon novelty drinks known as Hand Grenades. Though they were just fuzzy swatches in my peripheral vision, I could identify the color-by-numbers attire of tourists in New Orleans. The group remained a blur because, as usual while working, I gazed only at a softened middle distance, not focusing my eyes.
One of the dudes approached, so close I could smell his sugary drunk breath.
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He clapped his hands a few inches from my face. His palms expelled a little gust of air, cool on my grease-painted nose and cheeks. For several years in my 20s, off and on, I was a professional statue. Statue was both a noun and a verb. I was a statue; statuing was what I did. My job was, basically, not to react. Unless one of the tourists gave me what I wanted — a tip in the plastic lemonade pitcher at my feet — I gave them nothing. I made eye contact.
Confessions of a Fixer: How one former coach perpetuated a cheating scheme - Sports Illustrated
I listened patiently. I was free with my thanks and my apologies. I forgave. I forgave him for not getting a job, for the long nights I spent listening to stories of his childhood pain, for throwing our bedroom lamp across the room in a temper. I used my statuing money to pay our rent, to buy our groceries. When we were too broke to go to the laundromat, I washed our clothes by hand in the bathtub and draped them over our chain-link fence to dry.
Forgiving him was a daily act, a constant renewal. Except here, now, on Bourbon Street. That my arms ached, frozen mid-gesture with the fan. That my neck ached, under my huge, flowered hat.
Crime Fiction
I statued as often as I could handle, though I also worked construction, at 10 bucks an hour, for an uptown slumlord. On a good statuing day, I made three times that, but I could only work three-hour shifts; physically, it was the harder of the two jobs. They would not, could not, leave me alone. It was as if, by doing nothing, I had challenged them to a fight.