So I’m working at Costco now. Admittedly, this is my first ever real job. To be fair, I’ve held down plenty of little side hustles over the years; landscaping, nannying, filling essential oil bottles, etc. But this is my first experience in a multinational, household name type company with ample benefits (that’s right) and a drug test (not the kind where the band makes you do drugs in order to join) and an official [TANNER – Front End Assistant] badge.
The pandemic has made everyone’s job at Costco a bit harder, but no one has been affected more than the sample people (food demonstrators). Normally sample stations are the lifeblood of Costco, and are beautiful little havens of conversation and merriment. We aren’t allowed to give out samples right now, so sample workers just stand behind their carts shouting their product’s elevator pitch to passing members – which, between masks, social distancing, and members not actually being able to try the product, has a dismal rate of contact. So I’m snaking my way back-and-forth through the freezer aisles, disinfecting handles, and listening to a tiny, old woman yell, “Whole milk yooogurt baaaars. NO preservatives or artificial flaaaavooors!” in virtual solitude for an hour before finally striking up a conversation with her (idle chit-chat between employees is not condoned while on shift).
Me: Seems kind of hard to do samples right now?
Sample Lady: Yeah it is what it is. Are you new?
Me: I guess so. I’ve been here a few weeks now. I’m not really sure when the “I’m new” phase officially ends haha.
Sample Lady: Oh nice. So are you planning on going to school?
Me: Actually I graduated from Indiana University last year!
SL: *disapproving expression only women over 65 can produce*
… and you’re working here???
Me: … *Awkwardly sprays nearby handle*
The ensuing period of internal debate and vulnerability was not helped in the slightest by the “hottest girl in school” from high-school walking by moments later, and me, having just lost more or less all self-confidence (and wearing my polo-&-dad-shoes work uniform), frantically jumping between freezer aisles to avoid being noticed in any way. It was a lot to deal with. But, for better or worse, the whole encounter is forcing me to confront two big dilemmas.
The first being why I didn’t respond to the the sample lady’s rude, loaded question with “well I got a music degree”. I’ve told my temporarily-back-in-Utah story to many coworkers, and I’m grateful most of them understand my situation resulting from the pandemic basically eviscerated the performing arts and event industries. Unfortunately – and any musician whose had a Thanksgiving, older extended family, “what do you plan to do with a music degree” conversation can understand this – many people, like the sample lady, have no idea what it means to be a musician and would take my music degree response as confirmation that I’m some silly kid wasting my time (and a college degree) pursing a hobby. These conversations are mostly uncomfortable. I already spend enough time convincing my own ego I’m worthy of this profession. Now suddenly there’s pressure to address this person’s musician stereotypes, and somehow explain that (despite my [TANNER – Front End Assistant] badge) I have something valuable to share with my art, and I have what it takes to do this at a world-class level. Short of inviting someone to a show, how do I say I’m a real musician without sounding totally elitist? Why do I even feel the need to do so in the first place? Why can’t I just have a simple conversation without second guessing my life choices?
The second dilemma was/is coming to terms with getting a real job in the first place. There’s a whole lot of productivity shaming going around right now, and a general “when this is over the gigs are going to whoever practiced the most” attitude. Frankly, I disagree. It’s not like bands are going to suddenly re-audition every chair when things open up. Everyone just wants to get back to playing music with their friends, and that’s who they’re going to call the second they get the opportunity. The gigs are going to go to the musicians who make it through this stupid pandemic without losing faith in humanity, selling their instruments to pay rent, or literally dying. And right now having a real job is helping me do that.