Target is no place for old men. It’s true and the smiling, happy place that faintly smells like stale popcorn isn’t a place for a person like me. Don’t believe me? Target has been notorious for ageism. Oddly enough, there’s little or no information about the amount of 50-plus workers employed by Target nationwide. But that’s not all. In fact, we’ve recently heard about Target doing away with strategies that made it one of the more diverse companies in America. Oh oh.
I started working there before Target ended its DEI programs. I had no idea of any issues, so I applied there because I had to work somewhere.
The job before this was as a caregiver. I had been caregiving off and on for nearly 20 years. My last two clients were the best and worst of it. One shift ended as I became the villain who was stealing everything from metal pooper scoopers and 15-year-old whisk brooms. The other shift ended because the client died; I had to leave him and his wife, and I grew attached to both.
I had to find a job like everyone and my next job was at Target as a seasonal hire. I interviewed with two young white kids, very young, I have GI Joes older than them. They were pleasant enough, and so was the interviewer. Her name was Hannah was slim, wore big glasses and was bald, she had been hired as a seasonal advocate a few years ago. That gave me hope.
I remember the early shifts were fun. There was perfunctory training, but it was pleasant enough. The staff and members talked to one another, they were playful. My first boss was blonde, an attractive woman, a little imposing. When I told her I didn’t want to go on the register, she said in a pitch-perfect sitcom tone, “That’s the job you were hired for, sir.” I got on the register. Later, as I worked at self-checkout as a Guest Advocate, she said, “You’re doing a good job.” In fact she told me that a few times.
Of course, she was gone within days. Apparently the very kind and helpful girls were gone within a week too. I’m not surprised, I overheard a bigger boss saying they were getting rid of the morning shift. They were on the morning shift.
I wasn’t there to make friends like it was a ‘90s dramedy. I was there to work. Target put me on the late, late shift, 7 to 12. This is where seasonal employment fools you. You work hard shifts, and you think you’d be indispensable. Not quite. In fact, after a few disappointments, my biggest wish was to not do anything stupid and just hang on.
The permanent job I wanted more than anything was being Guest Advocate in the self checkout line. I liked that a lot. When I got scheduled for my hours more often than not an older woman was in that slot. I knew her around town, she worked at the Unemployment Office. She was very pleasant and worked hard but if we had to arm wrestle for that job as the Over The Top soundtrack played through a boombox, so be it!
Nothing quite like that happened. In my last job I was often the only staff on site so I was amazed to be working with people. In my quiet times I marveled at how diverse the store was. That’s what Target was/is known for.
Although we were all essentially doing the same jobs, everyone treated me differently though. The Latino kids were mostly kind, the ones who helped me learn were mildly exasperated with my progress but all were genuinely happy to see me.
The Indian kids were equally kind as well. I remember a few of the girls treating me with respect. For a black man who is often deemed “weird,” that is a bit different.
The white kids were hit and miss. Some days they’d talk, other days not. That’s why I rarely speak to people I barely know.
Sad for me, a boss with the monotone Janeane Garofolo voice was like that. We could be the only people in the room, I’d say hello and hear crickets. Everyone deserves a hello; everyone deserves respect.
The younger black kids were ok too, they were kind, didn’t make me feel like an old man and in the way.
I got more sociological lessons for my dime, too. The most unpleasant customers were the women people call “Karens.” They earned their reputation. When I was at the cash register, there was an excess of women, from 44 to 1,000, who complained just to complain.
The majority of them were just spoiling a fight either at the beginning, middle or end of our interaction, even the good ones. I can still see a woman’s anger when I wouldn’t hold a backed-up line after she took 5 minutes to go grab a pair of denim overalls for her toddler. She got so mad.
With every confrontation, I knew in the back that if anything took me out of the job, it would be that gaggle of Karens. So many of them went to the manager probably to whine about me.
I didn’t fight all of the time I was there, and I also had a few reunions. I saw my 3rd-grade teacher in line, and we hugged. I ran into a high school friend who always makes me laugh and we finally settled a politically based estrangement. I even managed to run into one of the sons of the couple from my last caregiving shift. The son emphatically thanked me for my help with his father. I appreciated that.
Although I was doing good work, I didn’t feel safe. I was there on the days and nights leading to Christmas, the heaviest times and still had no clue whether I would be kept on. I finally got a clear answer a little bit after the holidays on an otherwise mundane day at the cash register. Near my break one of the nicer bosses walked up to my line and told me to turn off my light and go to Hannah’s office. This did not feel good, so much so I almost hurled on the spot.
I went to Hannah’s office and I sensed what the news was, she didn’t have to speak, but she had to, I was being let go. I was surprised and yet not surprised.
I went back to the register a little shaken, I was sad, that’s the word I’d use, sad. Often one rejection is tied to another. After the shift, I walked through the parking lot and I thought about being let go from a job I had nearly 35 years before at Black and Decker. I was a seasonal hire then, too, and just wanted to hang on.
For some reason my experience at Target reminded me of those lines in Peter Gabriel’s “Don’t Give Up.”
For every job, so many men
So many men no-one needs
My last shift was like the Greatest Hits of everything I had encountered. I was the Guest Advocate at self-checkout, and it was a madhouse. All of the things I was afraid of at first I dealt with, with ease. My last chores were putting papers in the register, something that haunted my dreams. Really I should have just left but who knows when I’ll get the chance to put papers in a register again, it’s the little things.
Everyone who works at a job has a story. They are there for different reasons and have different expectations. At my age and my fear of cash registers, I didn’t expect to ever work at Target, but I liked it and I’d do it again but next time with bosses that speak, more breaks and less Karens.
Jason Elias is a music journalist and a pop cultural historian.