Flowbee home haircutting system. Curl-a-Dog hotdog spiral slicer. Battery Daddy battery storage case.
These accounted for some of “the best” products, all available at The Best of ‘As Seen on TV’ kiosk in the Park Meadows Mall. The bar for “the best” at this company was admittedly low, and my sales were frankly lower. Clad in my requisite ‘As Seen on TV’ polo and magnetic nametag, I spent more of my shift giving mall walkers directions to the nearest toilets or processing returns from jaded customers than ringing up new purchases.
“Does this ‘Scratch-Dini’ scratch remover really work?” A suburban dad donning an orange Broncos fanny pack inquired.
“Doubtful,” I shrugged. The 1997 Colorado minimum wage was $4.75 per hour, and I was a disaffected 16-year-old. A product sold only increased the likelihood of a sour return. At most I was operating as a warm body that kept the displayed inventory from being stolen. Not that any of it was in high demand.
The man seemed vaguely disappointed, if unsurprised. He placed the waxy box, boldly labeled with the fire engine red ‘As Seen On TV’ emblem, back on the shelf and followed his kid over to the Spencer’s Gifts where they could peruse a different selection of gimmicky crap.
I resumed reading my novel.
One Saturday, a few months into this after-school and weekends gig, I arrived for my shift to find empty floorboards where the stall previously stood. An inevitable outcome, given what little I knew about business efficacy. I walked to the adjacent establishment, a Beanie Baby kiosk, and borrowed their cordless phone to dial Mary the middle-aged manager.
“I’m so sorry! We’re all out of jobs,” she sobbed, apparently blindsided by this turn of events. The store’s flimsy premise was merely that these products had indeed been hawked on TV, quality or functionality be damned. Its shoddy wares seemed like a questionable enterprise on which to hang one’s hat. Yet clearly middle-aged Mary had more riding on this than a highschooler.
“Okay, no prob.” I failed to provide much solace. Annoyed this information hadn’t been communicated to me before I’d driven in, I was also perfectly happy to have my weekend back. Then, “What about my check?” The company easily owed me $33.25 (before taxes) for prior hours worked. Usually, I picked up the paper check in person.
“We’ll mail it to you,” Mary promised.
I returned the cordless phone to its cradle below the Princess Diana Beanie Baby, then wandered over to Orange Julius, where my friend worked, in pursuit of a free smoothie. Maybe they were hiring.
Annika Speer is an Associate Professor in the Department of Theatre, Film, and Digital Production at University of California Riverside. Her academic writing has been published in journals specializing in communication, theatre, gender & sexuality, and pedagogy; her creative non-fiction has been published in a variety of literary journals.
