I told her my dream: to gain more knowledge about the sneaker business, climb the ladder at City Sports, and then transition to Nike and become their rep. My mind was made up. That was my life goal.
I started doing triple shifts whenever I could. I worked holidays, my birthday, all the time. It wasn’t just about money anymore; I had a dream fueling me. Nothing mattered but work. I wanted to be employee of the month. I wanted to make manager. I wanted to go to corporate. I wanted to do whatever it took to get to Nike. I saw my future in front of me and was running to greet it, with a nice EVA midsole and a padded sock liner to prevent shin splints.
I became known as the guy in the store with all the energy. I learned where everything was in the storage room and I’d leap down the stairs to get sneakers for someone to try on, then sprint back with their size before they knew what hit them. During the lunch rush, the manager loved having me on the floor, because I’d be helping half a dozen customers at the same time.
Soon, customers were stopping by the department just to see me. If they were having a tough time at work, I tried to lift them up and make their visit to the store a highlight of their day. I discovered that I had a talent for remembering faces and names. And by recognizing and acknowledging people, I started getting regulars: “Hey, Ross, good to see you, man!” “Did your kids like them sneakers, Abby?” “You ready for a new pair of gym shoes, Mrs. Daly?”
However, even a people person doesn’t like everyone. So I learned the flip side of customer service: meeting people who aren’t so friendly, but still smiling and being cool with them. There were the grumpy middle-aged men who sent me up and down the stairs twelve times for different sneakers and sizes, then didn’t buy anything. There were the careless teenagers who put on a pair of sneakers, walked all over the store with them, creased them up, and then left them scattered on the floor in another department.
This taught me a level of patience that I hadn’t yet learned. When my patience was stretched too thin, I’d go down to the storeroom and talk shit about customers with my coworkers.
“That motherfucker’s had me running down here fifteen times for sneakers, and he’s not planning to buy nothing.”
“Who, Green Shirt?”
“Yeah, Green Shirt! You know he does that all the time. I hate it when he comes in here.”
“You know who’s worse? Tortoise Glasses.”
“He back?”
“Yeah. I’m not taking him. One of y’all take him. He gets me mad, and I’ll end up saying something I’ll regret.”
* * *
One afternoon, Brandon, one of the managers, called me into his office. I didn’t know if he was going to cuss me out for talking smack about customers or praise me for all the hard work I’d been doing.
“I wanted to talk to you,” he began very earnestly, “and say that your drive and work ethic are not going unseen around here.” I breathed a visible sigh of relief. “We see what you’re doing and we really, really like it. And we want to give you a small raise and move you up a little bit on the chart.”
I couldn’t believe it. I was climbing the ladder!
“We’d like to make you floor general and give you a seventy-five-cent raise.”
“I’ll make you proud as floor general, sir.”
I was beyond excited. I was going places. I was successful out here in the real world, more successful than I’d ever been in classrooms and pools.
I left his office and marched back to the sneaker section:
Me: Hey, guys, look, y’all know I’m the floor general now.
Colleagues: What?
Me: Didn’t they tell you guys? Yeah, they’re gonna give me the shirt tomorrow.
Colleagues: Floor general?
Me: Y’all know what that means, so let’s make sure all these displays are straightened up here.
Colleagues: All right, they’re straight, Kev.
Me: Good—good job. You guys are doing really nice work. I’ll put that in my report.
I had no idea what a floor general was. It was probably some bullshit title to motivate employees; for all I knew, they gave it to a different employee each month. But, man, it had the word “general” in it and it sure felt good. When I started walking around in a shirt with “FL General” written on the back, while everyone else had shirts that just said “City Sports,” it went straight to my head.
As soon as a customer crossed the threshold of the department, I’d march right up and introduce myself: “How you doing? I’m Kevin Hart. I’m the floor general here, you know. So if you need anything, come to me. If somebody else isn’t taking care of you, I’ll take care of you in the best way possible.”
I understood then why people who are given a title start acting high and mighty and think they’re better than everyone who doesn’t have that title. A title carries authority. A uniform carries authority. Even a security guard putting on a badge and utility belt and heavy flashlight starts to think, All right, they gotta listen to me at this mall, because I look like I’m in charge.
Though I probably became insufferable for a little while, the authority also helped me grow. I wanted to live up to that title and the store’s trust in me, and I became more professional and responsible than I’d ever been. I took the position so seriously that when my friend Spank visited me, I refused to give him an employee discount because it was against store regulations. He never returned.
* * *
After I saved a few hundred dollars, I started looking for an apartment, but I couldn’t afford both the deposit and the first month’s rent.
I knew a crazy motherfucker from my neighborhood named Zachary, who had originally introduced me to Spank. I always thought Zachary was bowlegged, because he’d walk like he was squeezing a bowling ball between his thighs.
One day, I asked him if he was born like that. “Born with a big package,” he responded.
“What?”
“Yeah, it’s like the male equivalent of a chick with her back arched and her tits thrust out. She wasn’t born that way. She learned to walk that way to send a signal, know what I mean?”
“You gotta be kidding me.”
“Girls love this bowlegged shit.”
I asked if he wanted to get a place together, because living with him would be the opposite of living with my mom. However, Zachary and his big package were living with a girlfriend for free, so he introduced me to a buddy of his named Paul who was looking for a place. I convinced Paul that it would be a good idea to get an apartment together, and we found a two-bedroom spot above a barbershop. The rent was four hundred dollars a month, which we split. I’ll never forget the address, because it was my liberation: 22 Westmoreland Street.
I no longer had to get permission from my mom or answer a million questions when there was something I wanted to do. I could go wherever I wanted and stay out all night and answer to no one. Most importantly, I got my own room with a door I could close for privacy.
* * *