Change is afoot

The history book on the shelf
Is always repeating itself...
---Abba, "Waterloo"

Ten years ago almost to the day, my life took one of those sudden screeching turns I've always dreaded. My boss, a real bitch-monster, had left the scene not long before. She had been replaced by a gentleman named Mike, whom we all learned to call Mac. At the time I couldn't imagine a better manager, and not just in comparison with Jo, either.
With practically no warning, certainly with no rhyme or reason, just as Mac was growing into his role and our team was meshing, he was transferred to another 7-Eleven on the other end of town.
Viewed from north Waterloo, Doon was seven kinds of paradise. I had subbed in there often enough to know. The sports bar in the same plaza rarely disgorged drunks, and almost no student drunks. Used to the frantic, frenetic pace of store 25067, I was stunned to discover that at Doon I had time to read a newspaper on the night shift. The atmosphere, even before Mac arrived there, was relaxed. Morale was high.
Meanwhile, back at my King and University store, we awaited our new manager with some trepidation. I worked night shift--as I almost always did--on her first day, and put as much effort as I could into my job that night.
Most of the jobs I have had through my life have involved cleaning, at least in part. Being a man, I am, as Dave Barry has noted, unable to see dirt until it can sustain commercial agriculture. It is so frustrating to polish everything around to a fine sheen, only to miss one little spot...which of course screams out to all and sundry, "Here I am! Look at me! I'm filthy!" And it hasn't escaped me that women tend to hear that scream more keenly.
This woman toured her new domain to a cacophony of little screams, inaudible to Mac, some of them inaudible to even Jo. She then turned them full force upon me, making me feel like my four and a half years' experience on night shift had evaporated.
Shortly thereafter I requested...and was granted...a transfer to Doon, Mac, and sanity.
Ten years ago almost to the day. As wonderful as this change was even to contemplate, it was still a change, and I didn't (and don't) handle change all that well when it's forced upon me. Or when I force it upon myself, for that matter.
There was, for instance, the matter of a 100-minute commute each way, on airless, packed hells disguised as Kitchener Transit busses. Half that on one of these things leaves me weak and gasping for breath; even with a book to lose myself in, the full 100 minutes was insupportable. That meant moving--again--and the only place I could find on short notice was a tiny basement room with walls that might have been constructed out of rice paper. There was no woman in my life at the time. Truth be told, that was something of a relief. I couldn't in good conscience show anyone the hellhole I was living in.
But I had my transfer.
I threw myself into my job with a will. Night shift ceased its drunken torments and became something to enjoy. In the solitude of three in the morning, in the lit oasis of a 7-Eleven, I could almost imagine my life going someplace.
Then came the letter, attached to a paystub, from Head Office informing me that in six weeks my store would be closing.
I was offered employment at yet another store in Kitchener, one I had worked maybe twenty shifts in over the years. The drunks there were serious, hardcore, downtown drunks. It was the kind of store where I'd have to pull the Listerine off the shelf every night lest it be bought or stolen. It was also the kind of store one could easily imagine being knifed or shot in.
No, thank you.
I will never forget the ensuing six weeks. The community reacted with shock and confusion when it found out we were closing due to lack of business. "But I'm in here all the time!" was the oft-spoken refrain, usually from the mouths of people we'd never seen before.
The shelves ran down far past the point of absurdity. In the middle of the night I imagined I could hear them begging to be refilled. There was an almost overwhelming compulsion to just stop trying, to tell 7-Eleven's upper management--I believe their names were Benedict Arnold, Delilah, and Judas Something-Or-Other--exactly how we felt. Every customer couldn't help but notice the sad emptiness and we'd have to explain over and over that yes, we were closing and no, there wasn't a damned thing in the world we could do about it. We felt like we were letting the neighbourhood down.

The severance package I was offered was more than fair, especially since I had rejected what, to the company, was a perfectly legitimate alternative. I felt I could quite easily get another job before my money ran out, so I didn't bother applying for employment insurance. In my foolish, foolish mind, I equated E.I. with welfare. I'd already done the welfare thing and was ashamed of myself for it. Besides, the next job would come along tomorrow.
It wasn't. Nor was it the next day, or for a very long succession of days after that. In the end I was reduced to applying for a market research job...where I was interviewed and hired by the woman who would one day be my wife.

Almost as if I was being steered.

Fast forward to this morning. I've been in the same job now for almost six years. I know what a hoary old cliche this is, but it's still apt: the people I work with constitute a family. A remarkably close-knit family, given the climate of change that governs the grocery industry: many of the people who are with us, including much of the management, have been there for years.
Our little family is ruled over by a man named Larry Dobbs, who has been there almost since the store opened. It was his store until just recently. A better boss would be hard to imagine, let alone find. His loyalty to his employees inspires loyalty to him (the secret to effective management, and one far too many managers never learn). He's approachable, always quick with a joke, and most of all he understands the job is just a job. You're expected to care about it, but it isn't to rule your life. That's another secret many upper management types don't often bother with, incidentally.
We went corporate seven or eight months ago to repeated assurances that any changes would be invisible to us employees. My wife, knowing human nature as she does, told me that, to the contrary, things would only go downhill from here. But up until this morning, it seemed that sense would prevail. The team that had built our store up from nothing into the busiest Price Chopper in the city would stick together.
I have been incredibly lucky not to have to work weekends since I came to this store nearly six years ago. It wasn't anything I had asked for, but my schedule has been a fringe benefit, one almost as valued to me as my boss. Nevertheless, I've taken to coming in Saturdays for at least a couple of hours, just to make sure everything is running smoothly. That's what I did today. I had an order to write, but before I could get to it Larry took me aside and announced a "powwow" upstairs.
I have a guilty conscience. Always have had. I racked my mind furiously to determine what I'd done to get my ass fired, and came up totally empty. When Larry began to gather all the present members of our management team together, I threw my brain in reverse. Mental tires spun and smoked. Either Larry was retiring or--
"You're getting transferred," somebody said.
Larry nodded, struck nearly mute.
I almost thought I saw the lights dim.
The sense of shock, of shellshock, was palpable. Tears were shed, epithets were hurled, and we all looked at each other, uncertain. Larry's going to the Price Chopper equivalent of Doon, a store so dead the running joke is that it's closed and the employees just don't know it yet. He assures me they won't close the store with him in it, but I've seen that done before. Besides, they had assured him he would never be transferred.
That store should thank its lucky stars. They're getting a great manager...and a great man.

Meanwhile I don't know what we're getting. But there's a possibility I'll be finding myself another job soon. If what I bring to bear on my job isn't appreciated, I mean. That's a terribly scary thought for me: I'm well entrenched in my career at this point, and finding something open commensurate with my skill level, not to mention my level of pay, is an unlikely proposition. So I'd be looking at not just a change of job, but a change of career.

I told Larry I'd follow him to his new store. And I would, even if they did close it in eight or nine months. But there's no place there for me.

Stay tuned. I sure as hell will.