Getting a job in retail seemed like a great idea.

The summer before my freshman year, I applied to Bath & Body Works. I handed in my application and thought to myself, “How bad can it be?” ― though I was completely ignorant of Newton’s Fourth Law:

“If the thought ‘How bad can it be?’ precedes an action, then the result of that action will be pretty f*cking bad.”

Before I knew it I was working at a place that would haunt my summer memories forever.

Bath & Body Works was split up into zones. I suffered in zone one or zone four.

Zone one meant register, and being on register meant never accepting that customers were buying enough things. Customers were always one loofah short. They just didn’t know it.

“I know you just spent 30 minutes going through the store, but if you haven’t noticed the loofah right in front of your face, it’s only 99 cents and I think it would complement the hand sanitizer you’re purchasing,” I would say.

The general response: “Thank you so much. Sometimes those hot pink, ‘ON SALE: LOOFAHS 99 CENTS’ signs are so hard to read. I’ll take five!”

Despite how dreadful zone one was, it didn’t compare to the horrors of zone four. Zone four meant being The Greeter.

As The Greeter, it was my job to say, “Welcome to Bath & Body Works,” as someone stepped into the store. Timing was crucial. If The Greeter didn’t wholeheartedly welcome customers, they would sense they were in a hostile environment and would instantly melt, unable to buy anything while in puddle form.

It seemed very serious.

For four hours I paced, occasionally adjusting soaps and making sure lotions were perfectly aligned. Every time someone came in I gave my best fake smile and said, “Welcome to Bath & Body Works!” with undertones of, “Turn back. Take me with you.”

One day, at the end of a long shift, a couple came in. Taking a big breath, I released, “Welcome to Bath & Body Works” a few octaves higher than my normal range due to unbalanced levels of friendliness and self-hatred.

“We’re happy to be here!” the guy replied, smirking and mimicking my fake, cheerful tone.

Without missing a beat, I replied, “That makes one of us!”

He burst out laughing, his girlfriend burst out laughing and I burst out laughing. It was the happiest I’d been in the store since day one.

I had a revelation.

The only way to survive working at Bath & Body Works was pretending to be a double agent. I was only posing as a Bath & Body Works employee, but I was secretly the customers’ ally.

I started accepting expired coupons, only pushed products when my manager was breathing down my neck and, after asking if the customer wanted to join our mailing list, silently mouthed, “You don’t have to. It’s OK.”

I soon became the most beloved employee at Bath & Body Works. Corporate would call the store, asking to speak to me.

“According to our customer survey, you’re the employee our customers voted ‘Employee I’m Least Tempted to Strangle with her Own Apron.’ What’s your secret?”

“Not giving a f*ck,” I would reply proudly. “Customers like when you don’t give any f*cks.”

After telling them I would definitely call back when I came home from school, I definitely didn’t and haven’t been back since.

But let’s face it. That never really happened. I quit because I just wasn’t getting the appreciation I deserved for my allegiance to the people.

And now, thanks to Bath & Body Works, I’m emotionally scarred for life. Anytime I smell even the hint of Cotton Blossom in the air, I’ve been known to twitch while screaming, “WELCOME TO BATH & BODY WORKS.”

So I encourage you to write to Congress about our failing retail system before it’s too late and you end up like me.

Sarah Schuster is a sophomore magazine journalism major. Her column appears weekly in Pulp. She can be reached at seschust@syr.edu.

Published on April 3, 2013 at 8:38 pm