Writing Life
The Skills to Pay the Bills

by Caitlin Kelly

If you had told me the secret to doubling my freelance income would be working retail for $11 an hour—no commission—I'd have laughed long and hard. But that's what has happened since I joined a national chain of high-end sporting goods stores in an upscale mall near my home in suburban New York. (Yes, the powerful new wireless Mac helped too.) Last year drained me financially and emotionally after I was hospitalized with pneumonia and my stepmother died at 63. Traveling frequently to my native Toronto and a looming recession pushed my income to its lowest. When I saw the ad in my local paper seeking sales associates for the chain's newest store, I thought I'd try, even with no retail experience. I could use a steady paycheck, even a small one.

I live in Westchester, NY, a county whose affluent teens might elsewhere flock to a cool job and a 50 percent staff discount on products so coveted they are counterfeited. But here they're doing internships or touring Europe. My travel to 37 countries and my love of sports and the outdoors might be a good fit. My 30 years as a journalist also gave me a transferable skill—the proven ability to relate to anyone, from corporate attorneys to cops. Asking enough questions to start a sale is essentially a mini-interview.

I was hired. A 50-year-old Caucasian with no kids, I'm the minority. Two colleagues are single mothers in their early 20s, two, married in their 30s, are each raising four children with their working-class spouses. The assistant managers are both 24. One day three of my 20-something colleagues were dissecting a favorite BET show. "So, who's psyched about the new season of Lost?" I asked. They looked at me blankly.

I'd handled stress as a daily newspaper journalist—covering a two-week national Royal Tour working 16-hour days, eight-hour midtown Manhattan stakeouts. Working retail between Thanksgiving and Christmas? I staggered home nauseated with exhaustion. "Everyone in retail hates their job this time of the year," commiserated a seasoned colleague. I watched in horrified fascination as some of the nation's richest and most highly educated shoppers screamed abuse at us, tossed $600 ski jackets on the floor and threw tantrums when we ran out of gift boxes.

Never again would a nasty editor or uncommunicative assistant scare me. Like German fencers who proudly bear the scars of their sport on their cheeks, I'd been bloodied—and survived.

I wear a nametag and uniform, (free company logo-ed shirts and shoes provided twice a year), schlep, steam, tag and sort product, sweep the floor and dust the counters. Six months in—three months beyond the industry average—I'm still there. I enjoy it.

My freelance work environment is a one-bedroom apartment with no office. I need to get out. I need some minimal routine and I value knowing I've been helpful. Often, my only interaction with editors is an e-mailed brushoff or a check and another assignment. After long days chained to the computer and phone, I crave face-to-face contact.

As in fencing, a sport in which I was nationally ranked, I have to read each shopper's personality within minutes and engage them accordingly. The snottiest treat me as just another servant, others as a valued authority.

I like my co-workers, partly because retail doesn't tolerate prima donnas. While fellow writers often feel compelled to trumpet their latest byline, my colleagues are mellow and helpful. My 40-year-old manager served with the Air Force in Mogadishu, has a wrist-to-elbow tattoo and climbs ice-walls for fun. Our gentlest soul last worked in a supermarket meat department.

Without the artificial boost of social capital, we compete on a level playing field—the sales floor. When I routinely doubled or even tripled my daily four-figure sales goal, I realized I could also much better sell another terrific product—myself.

I've helped Chilean psychologists, Finnish skiers, British retail executives, a local obstetrician wearing his scrubs, an ICE agent seeking a jacket to accommodate the Glock 9mm holstered on his hip and a jet salesman. My own globetrotting and excellent French and Spanish help both euro-rich tourists and locals heading to the Andes, Europe, Africa, Costa Rica or the Grand Canyon.

My journalism skills still earn me 10 times my hourly pay, something I newly appreciate. I no longer cringe at cold-calling new publications, and late payments sting less with a regular paycheck, even if it only covers groceries. Expected somewhere every Tuesday, I also now more efficiently organize my writing work.

On the sales floor, I also find something elusive in life and journalism—heartfelt thanks. Like me, customers are weary of retail indifference, incompetence or rudeness. Like me, they're surprised, delighted and grateful to receive great service. And, I've learned, I'm good at giving it.

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An ASJA board member, Caitlin Kelly is the author of Blown Away: American Women and Guns (Pocket Books 2004), winner of a Canadian National Magazine Award and a former reporter for the New York Daily News.