I was born to work in a toy store. I love everything about it. The stuffed animals, the doll’s houses, the video games, everything. Everything except the kids. Boy, my life would be so much easier without them. The little brats. Running around screaming, knocking things over, trying to look up my skirt every five minutes, dropping their gum right where they know I’ll step in it. Do they think shoes like this come cheap? Those brats have ruined more pairs of heels than I care to mention. I’d ban the lot of them if this were my store.
Of course, not everyone sees it my way. I can hear them now: “Jamie, you can’t work in a toy store if you don’t like kids”. Yeah right. If I had a penny for every time I’d heard that one, I‘d have... well, I’d probably have less than a nickel, but that’s only because people are too scared to say what they really feel. They’d rather keep quiet than give me the satisfaction of knowing what’s on their mind. But I can tell they’re thinking it. They look down their noses and act like they’re superior, just because they’ve never pushed a child into a wishing well and blamed it on the foreign tourist who can’t speak English. But the way I see it, we don’t sell children, we sell toys. And children have no money, therefore they have no business being here.
Not that the parents are any better. If I turned up for work looking a mess, they’d be the first to complain, but I only have to stop work for one minute to apply some fresh lipstick, and suddenly it’s “Jamie, we’ve had another complaint. Customers saw you putting on make-up in Pooh Corner”. So what? It’s not like I’m teaching Tigger to smoke. A bit of eyeliner behind the stuffed Eeyores, and suddenly I’m a criminal. They should be glad I’m making an effort with my appearance, but oh no, that would require some form of appreciation from my boss, and frankly the man doesn’t do appreciation.
He’s always had a problem with me. I turn up on time, I do my job, but that’s not enough for him. He’ll always find something to gripe about. What was the latest thing? Oh yes, “concerns about the appropriateness of my dress”. What’s his problem? Sometimes I wear a bra, sometimes I don’t. What’s it got to do with him? It’s not as though I walk around the store naked. Oh, and he doesn’t care for my perfume. Like I give a damn. I wouldn’t want to attract a man like him anyway. And frankly, I don’t care too much for his particular brand of body odour either. ‘Essence of Sweatpants’ seems to be his preferred cologne.
Up to now I’ve simply ignored him. But today things took a turn for the worse. It was this morning that the inspector arrived. Now, they say these inspections are routine, but I wasn’t born yesterday. When a man in a cheap polyester suit turns up from head office, and spends an hour watching you from behind a six-foot ninja turtle, you know he’s doing more than just checking sales figures. They clearly wanted me out this time.
Well I wasn’t about to give in. I like my job, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to let anyone force me out over a bit of make-up, a few short skirts, and some not-so-short heels. This is the age of the sexual harassment lawsuit, after all.
The inspector followed me about all day. He did his best to blend in, but it’s hard to remain nonchalant when you’re a middle-aged businessman alone in the doll’s clothing section. I had his number. Where I went, he went. And what he saw was a model employee. Or so I thought.
It was mid afternoon when he disappeared. I was occupied wiping sticky brat-sized fingerprints off the purple dinosaurs, and when I turned around he was gone. I tracked him down soon afterwards outside the boss’s office. They were both there – Captain Sweatpants and the Polyester Kid. I stayed back behind the plastic pirate ship, and put on a dab of lip gloss while they talked.
“I’ve made out a brief initial report,” my stalker said. “I think it’s mostly an open and shut case. I’ve left my notes in your office.”
My boss looked pleased. “Excellent,” he said, “I have to pop down to the warehouse for two minutes, but I’ll read it the moment I get back.”
The two shook hands, and the king of man-made fibres made his way towards the exit. My boss locked the door of his office, and did likewise.
Good news or bad news, I wasn’t sure. But I had to know. It’s at times like this I’m glad I don’t believe in secrets. In the laudable spirit of glasnost, I’d taken it upon myself to find out everything I could about the lives of my esteemed colleagues. As a consequence, I knew exactly where Stinkypants kept his spare key.
I found the nearest stepladder and made straight for aisle three: the gated community of Dollsville. I positioned the steps at the foot of the main display, and climbed to within reach of ‘Paradise Ranch’, the biggest doll’s house we stocked. I looked behind me once again. The coast was clear. No brats peering up my skirt. I carefully pushed open the largest door in the doll’s house. The key was there. It was an obvious hiding place: the largest door in the largest house. Everything always had to be the biggest and best for that man. You wouldn’t know he lived with his mother in a rented apartment downtown.
I hurried back to the office and unlocked the door. I only had a few seconds to search the place before he returned. My eyes were immediately drawn to a handwritten note sitting in the middle of the desk. I grabbed it and started reading. It wasn’t good news. A page of management twaddle and undisguised prejudice was summed up in the last two lines:
“It’s important that the company project a wholesome family-friendly image to the customer. My conclusion therefore, is that we cannot afford to employ cross-dressers in our stores.”
Humph. I’ve always said a conclusion is just the point where you stopped thinking. But still, there’s nothing that can’t be changed with a bit of imagination.
I stroked my beard thoughtfully, picked up a pen, and set about rewriting the note.
