The Department Store Relic
Department stores are disappearing, and working in one feels like running a museum that nobody visits anymore. I have worked in the jewelry and home goods section of this historic store for over ten years now. Ten years. Sometimes I say that number out loud just to remind myself it's true. The place is fancy, even now. Tall ceilings that stretch up higher than you'd expect. Marble floors that click under your heels when you walk across them in the morning quiet. Chandeliers hanging above, probably covered in dust nobody has reached in years, but they still sparkle a little when the sun hits them right through the big front windows. It smells like my grandmother's house in here. Perfume mixed with old wood polish, maybe a hint of leather from the furniture section nobody visits anymore. That smell hits me every single time I walk through the doors, even after all these years, and it still makes me feel calm. Most of my customers are older folks. They come in looking for good things, solid things, items they cannot find in the cheap shops at the mall or on some website. They like that someone actually helps them. They like being asked how their day is going and having someone remember the answer next time. That's something younger people seem to miss out on these days, and honestly, I think some of them don't even know what they're missing. My regular customers know me by name. Mrs. Donnelly comes in every few weeks and shows me pictures of her grandkids on her phone, even though half the time she's holding it upside down and I have to gently turn it around for her. She laughs every time and says, "Oh, you'd think I'd remember by now." There's Mr. Alvarez, who always stops by the clock section even when he's not buying anything, just to talk about his knees and how the winter is getting to him. He tells me about the neighborhood too, how it used to be full of little shops and now it's mostly empty storefronts and a coffee place that charges too much. We talk about how things change. Sometimes that's the whole visit. No sale, just talk. The work is slow and steady here. We don't get the rush you'd see in a busy mall shop, no crowds pushing past each other, no long lines at the register. Instead we have something else. A sense of history, I guess you'd call it. We keep the displays perfect anyway, even on days when maybe five people walk through the whole store. I polish the silver until it shines, even pieces that have been sitting in that same case for months. I fix the mannequins so they look ready for a party that's never coming, straightening their little hats, adjusting the scarves around their necks like they're about to walk out the door themselves. Sometimes, after we close up for the night, I stand in the middle of the store and just look up at the empty balconies above me. The lights are dimmed low, just enough to see by, and the whole place goes quiet in a way that feels almost alive. It feels like a ghost town up there, like any minute someone from fifty years ago might lean over the railing and look down at me. Most people shop online now, or they buy whatever cheap trend is popular that month, and they leave these giant, beautiful buildings behind to sit empty. There's a sadness to that, standing there alone in a place built for crowds. But I find it comforting too, in a strange way. Like I'm keeping something alive just by being there. I've seen this store go through new owners more times than I can count. New signs, new paint, new promises about bringing the place back to life. I've watched failed renovations come and go, half-finished sections with plastic sheeting still hanging from the ceiling months later. I am one of the few people left who has stayed through all of it. Coworkers come and go. Managers change every couple years. But I'm still here, still showing up, still turning the key in that same old lock every morning. I know every light switch in this building, even the ones hidden behind old cabinets that nobody remembers installing. I know which floorboards squeak, especially the one by the shoe section that groans no matter how carefully you step on it. I know how to fix the old clock by the door when it stops ticking, which happens more often than you'd think. You have to give it a little tap on the side and turn the hand back just slightly, and it starts right back up like nothing happened. I feel like I'm part of this building now, like my footsteps are stitched into the floor somehow. I know that one day the doors here will close for good. It's not a matter of if, just when. And I know I'll probably be one of the last people to walk out when that day comes. That thought makes me sad, genuinely sad, the kind of sad that sits in your chest for a while after you think about it. But it also makes me value every single day I still get to spend here. Every customer who walks through that door, every little conversation, every polished piece of silver, it all means something because I know it won't last forever. There's something special about coming to work here, even now. Greeting the few people who walk in, asking about their day, remembering their names and their stories. Offering a little bit of human connection in a world that's gone mostly digital. People don't get that from a screen. They don't get that from clicking a button and waiting for a box to show up at their door. They get it from someone looking them in the eye and asking how their grandkids are doing. My coworkers think I'm a little crazy for staying at a place that's clearly failing. One of them, a younger guy named Tyler who works in electronics, asked me once why I don't just go find a job somewhere with more hours and better pay. I told him I could, probably. But I don't think he understands how proud I am to keep up a high standard here, even when it feels like nobody's watching. We're the last ones working in a world that mostly prefers easy apps and fast shipping. Somebody has to keep the lights on and the silver polished. I wear my uniform with pride, even on the days when the aisles are completely empty and I'm the only sound in the whole department, my shoes clicking against that marble floor. I keep showing up because I feel like I'm helping to save a little piece of history, one polished display case at a time, one conversation at a time, for as long as this old place will let me.