These days you often hear talk about having a “work family.” I don’t know, but I suspect this concept has always been around, even if we didn’t christen it so in years past.
One year while managing a larger-volume produce department, it occurred to me to have an on-floor, manned fruit-basket kiosk. It’s not an original thought by any means, but it’s something to add some festive theater to the store.
I had a victim, er, a possible volunteer for the job: Rick Kirkpatrick. He was more of an assistant than a clerk, with at least a decade of experience more than I, and about as supportive a clerk in our work family as one might imagine.
I consulted with some of the other devious family clerk members and, being the semi-literal one in the bunch, concocted a plan while the others sewed together a Santa’s helper outfit.
I wrote up an official-looking memo that seemed like a directive directly from our main office. (Remember, this was still a bulletins-stuffed-in-mailboxes, pre-internet time.)
Along with a suspicious-looking package, the memo said someone in our store was not only expected to man the fruit basket kiosk — with suggested days and times — but that same person would need to dress up in the accompanying green-and-red elf suit, complete with a hat and shoe covers adorned with little bells.
“I don’t believe it,” I said while reading the memo next to Rick, who stood in the backroom drinking a cup of coffee. I showed him the memo. “Rick, it looks like you’re the only one with enough experience to do this job.”
“I don’t think so!” Rick replied. “And, I don’t believe it, either,” he said as he closely scrutinized the memo. Finding nothing amiss, he simply rolled his eyes. “Another genius mandate from the main office. How humiliating! I can’t see how … ”
“Rick, nobody else has what it takes to handle this program. You’ve got the speed, the know-how and, well, besides — ” I said, holding up the elf suit. “You’re the only one slim enough to fit into this costume.”
As only a good family member would, Rick agreed to the Christmas plot.
As it turned out, Rick was perfect for the job. He worked the five days leading up the big day, dressed like a green-and-red pixie. He made a wonderful assortment of fruit baskets: small, medium and a few large ones. He handled the special orders with ease.
Rick even made some themed fruit baskets, such as new baby baskets with baby toys within, some get-well fruit baskets — heavy on the citrus and with some over-the-counter items like cough syrup.
Mostly, he made lots of smaller baskets, which at the time were under $10. These seemed to sell the best — and for good reason. Many last-minute shoppers scour stores looking for an economical gift for teachers, neighbors or even for their office family of coworkers.
Fruit baskets were (and still are) a ready gift sale, but only in the sense of “if you build it, they will buy.” If you don’t have baskets on display and don’t have a Rick out there building some holiday spirit, you won’t get much backlash — but “yule” also miss out on some great incremental sales.
After the holiday, Rick confessed that he knew all along about the conspiracy to trick him into shedding his self-respect to dress up like an elf. “I loved it,” he confided. “It was lots of fun, and I planned to help out anyway. Just not dressed up like Hermie the misfit elf.” (From the 1964 “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” TV special.)
Rick was a great sport to go along with the work gag, and the crew even kept the infamous office memo for years in the back room after I moved on.
After many years I lost touch with Rick, though I still hear from a couple of the crew from that store, now retired. It was so much effort each day, but we all pitched in, like any good work family could be expected.
I hope somewhere that they are all enjoying the holidays, and the memories.
Armand Lobato works for the Idaho Potato Commission. His 40 years of experience in the produce business span a range of foodservice and retail positions.
