Bright Lights, Big Ass: A Self-Indulgent, Surly, Ex-Sorority Girl's Guide to Why It Often Sucks in the City, or Who Are These Idiots and Why Do They All Live Next Door to Me? Read Online Free PDF

professionally under our smocks with earrings no larger than a dime, clear nail polish, no facial hair, 7 and panty hose, managers reserving the right to yell at us like drill sergeants were we to be remiss in any of the above areas. One day I forgot to put on knee-highs and flashed an inch of bare ankle; from the reprimanding I received, you’d have thought I’d kicked each and every customer in the big box.
    Let me just say this—my old managers do not work at the Target where I shop. There’s one kid there who sits on a stool to ring people up, and he wears a towel around his neck to mop up where he sweats from all the not-standing. He won’t even lift your purchases, making you scoot them across the scanner yourself. Yet I’ve seen him literally run out the door to smoke, and am pretty sure I once saw him hoist a case of beer onto his shoulder at my grocery store, so I don’t know why he merits a stool. And does he bring his own towel? Or just rotate the sweaty one back into stock? I kind of don’t want to think about it.
    As for the rest of the staff, they don’t quite adhere to the rules of yore, either. Neck tattoos? Check. Hickeys and neck tattoos? Check. Giant gold nameplate necklaces that spell out M-u-t-h-a-f-u-c-k-a? Muthafuckin’ check! I imagine if these cashiers manage to show up wearing pants not tenuously clinging to their kneecaps, their bosses are probably happy.
    In my day, 8 we got in big trouble if we didn’t say, “Welcome and thank you for shopping at Target,” to every customer as they approached our lane. Apparently these rules no longer apply, as usually my cashier will look at me with dead shark eyes, ring up my wonderful new items without a word, and then stare at me once the total appears on the register while the bagger carefully mixes my bleach, ammonia, and Pringles in the same bag. I’m at the point where I now say, “Hi, thanks for ringing me up here at Target. How much is my total?”
    In all fairness, I’ve read mine is the busiest Target in the world per square foot, so maybe everyone is just really jaded and tired of the crowds? Plus, I’ve heard their cashiers speaking ten different languages, so I, Miss Whitey McXenophobe, should perhaps cut them some terry-cloth-covered, stool-seated slack.
    The downside of the Target experience, at least at the urban Targets, is that something ridiculous happens every time we visit. Sometimes we get to see shoplifters get busted; occasionally it’s a bit of domestic violence with a dash of stock-boy bitch-slapping when a rain check is offered in lieu of the sold-out sale Pampers. (Fortunately, there’s never less than one of Chicago’s Finest shopping there, squad car perched right on the curb, so it’s totally safe.)
    Not long ago, I’m on my daily pilgrimage to Target and have just finished paying for an Us Weekly and some mini Hershey’s bars when I see another customer’s child do something troubling. “Excuse me, ma’am?” I say to the woman behind me. “Your son just ate a piece of gum stuck to the construction barrier in front of the new Starbucks.”
    With zero clue as to what I’ve said, she asks, “¿Qué?”
    “I said your child is chewing someone else’s gum. He picked it off the wall and put it in his mouth. I thought you might want to know.”
    She frowns at me. “¿Qué?”
    Damn it, how do I make her understand? “The baby?” I point at the little boy in the shirt with the rooster on it. “Over there? He’s yours, right? He’s chewing old gum and—ugh—right now, look, he’s peeling more off the wall and stuffing it in his mouth.”
    “¿Qué?”
    I raise my voice. Fletch says everyone understands English if you speak loudly enough. Or maybe he says everyone speaks English at gunpoint? I forget. “Your boy. Your, um, damn it, what’s the word? I know how to say it in Italian. Um, niño? Bambino?” I point at Little Rooster Boy. “Ate gum.” I point at the wall and the Wrigley display