On Having a Guy

September 30, 2021 - 8 minutes read - 1512 words

I was walking down Broadway the other day and a trio of teen boys were talking and walking when one of them copped his best New York accent — something between the average resident of Pachogue, Long Island and Tony Soprano — and said “I got a guy.” His friends laughed, and the rest of their interaction carried on.

I think “having a guy” reveals something profound about New York City. Here we are, piled upon each other in great density. How is the customer to be served when those who can provide service e.g.:

Those on the floor at a department store
Those behind the glass cases at a jeweler’s
Those across the counter at a fast-food joint
Those pulling box after box of shoes “from the back”

face a staggering volume of customers?

The paths forward are:

Premium service
The living Hell of Clerktown™
Having / Being a Guy ¹

In history, when the service providers were overwhelmed, they deployed innovations: the “Take a Number” system, idling, yelling, professional place holders, etc.

Premium Model

As a remedy, some retailers began selling their premium shopping experiences: Barneys (RIP), Bloomingdales, Tiffany, etc. all basically said: “We will compete based on service. We will give you attentive, competent, well-coiffed, well-dressed sales people and will build that promise into a surcharge that you will pay for.”

Mainstream Model

Nevertheless, many can not or will not pay that additional surcharge. Visit your average TJ Maxx, Marshall’s, store in Manhattan (or, heck, it’s probably just as bad in your local suburban strip-mall around the holidays), and you’ll experience the phenomenon of Clerktown ™.

Disclaimer

_Disclaimer: This is not to say that TJX Inc. stores are particularly bad compared to their cohort. It’s not to say that there aren’t some employees who somehow give a higher level of intimacy and attention despite the endless tsunami of customers. It’s not to say the expectations of workers in these positions are always reasonable; I certainly can’t keep up a bubbly façade for 8 hours, on my feet. It’s not to say that their “management by metrics and measures” don’t force them into throughput over customer engagement etc. There are many reasons, and lest I be accused of class-shaming/insensitivity, I’m ready to acknowledge that systemic forces might be at play. In the spirit of fair dialogue though, shoe on the other foot, how would you feel literally seeing that you’re being serviced between text conversation updates? And when we’re afraid to identify a person or an experience, we’re preventing the dialogue within the organization form happening that might take a nebulous problem and fix it.

In this situation, the employees are pleasant enough, but they are more likely to merely meet the minimum bar of performance because (let’s be honest) you won’t remember them, they won’t remember you, and they’re in a marathon, not a sprint, against exhaustion and the agony of de feet (see “Disclaimer” above). While a human can sprint excellent customer service when attempting to sell a BMW or two every week, the prospect of that level of intimacy and élan for the dozenth basket-full of Chinese-manufactured, cheugy-cringe “PSL makes mommy go” knick-knacks is a stretch for any human to maintain. So they don’t. This is Clerktown™.

A ripped-from-the-headlines anecdote of Clerktown™ at a certain fast food eatery known for its ice cream (and broken ice cream machines).

Me: Hi, is the ice cream machine working?
Clerk: Yes.
Me: (Astonished) Could I have a hot fudge sundae?
Clerk: No problem.
Me: Pays
Clerk: Here you go.
Me: Uhm, do you have nuts?
Clerk: We don’t have nuts.
Me: Silence Clerk: Silence
Me: But don’t the sundaes come with nuts?
Clerk: Yeah, but we don’t have nuts.

And this was in the pre-pandemic era where supply chain interruptions were not just a feature of the times. The interaction was stillborn at this point.

Now a manager or someone offering service beyond mere clerk-dom would have said:

“I know, I thought we had some. How about we give you a coupon for 50% off?”
Or, “Yeah, I’m sorry about that, I should have asked. How about some fries to go with it and you can try out the exotic traditions of the Midwest?”
Or, “Hey, yeah, would you prefer a new CoffeSnowTeezr instead?”

Something.

Anything.

But no, for that’s just how it is in Clerktown™. They don’t know you. You don’t know them. And, listen here, buddy, if you don’t like it, go somewhere else and face…another agent of Clerktown™.

So, for our poor consumer (including yours truly) this is the uncomfortable trash compactor squishing us from both sides: premium shopping (which might be unaffordable) and Clerktown™ which is endurable but not enjoyable. I suspect, this dynamic has been in play here in Gotham since the 19^th century. If you weren’t getting outright bamboozled, hornswaggled, had, sold a bill of goods, or flim-flammed, you were probably dead. But pain breeds innovation.

The solution: relationships. That is, “knowing a guy.”

“Knowing a Guy”

At most institutions, you’re likely to encounter the tentacles of Clerktown™. But every now and again at one of those institutions, you just might encounter someone who actually gives service, who actually “gets it done,” who tells you that “there aren’t any nuts” before you place that order. Your guy at the appliances store lets you know when the delivery for your AC units really might happen. Your guy knows that the big tall box in the move is grandma’s dining table and tells you that he’s going to “knock those knuckleheads’ heads together to make sure they’re goddam gentle with that one.” Your guy asks whether your front door is wide enough for the box. Your guy might call you a week later to see how that new set is working. Your guy knows the difference between weird motion smoothing algorithms in TVs and how to turn them the hell off. He knows you love Air Jordans and he’ll give you a text before the next shipment. Your guy knows that PC won’t work for grandma, but that one will.

Your guy is the lone voice in the wilderness. He is the night-watchman watching the waves of Clerktown™ lapping at the levee’s brim and resisting them. In short, while not expected of the job, your guy is a professional, even though the job is not socio-economically labeled as such. Look at a French waiter. From the chef’s best dishes to the wine, he’s a guy (or un mec).

You might even give your guy a Christmas gift. You might give him your phone number or vice versa. He might even have a card. You might even tip your guy.²

It all recalls the Roman empire where the paterfamilias awoke at dawn and proceeded to visit his clientes. These were usually social inferiors whose interests he forwarded and advocated for. So maybe his cliens had a bum back and a broken wagon, but he knows another social peer who has a wheelwright and a strong-backed Thracian as clientes. Maybe the peer could get his clientes to knock a little off the top for a promise of repeat business, to make that other paterfamilias look good, and help his cliens out. Bada-bing. A guy was been gotten.

The Roman paterfamilias had life and death power over his wife, children, and slaves, but his hobnobbing and social capital was often his most profound and far-reaching source of power. Powerful familia could (and often did) run syndicates, create markets, or cripple markets with manufactured runs and market cornering. “Having a guy” is an ancient and venerable source of power, respect, and therefore sharing your guy is a sign of profound friendship. Some famailia organizers were so powerful would be usurpers and emperors had to treat with them directly. The Belgian banking syndicate of the Medici familia held the English kings on a leash. Whoever owns your debt owns you, which, as an American, leads me to say “Ni hao.”

So, when you’re talking to a New Yorker and they say “I got a guy,” they’re telling you something very intimate: they like you and they’re willing to share something rare that they’ve cultivated and nurtured — something that you get to waltz your happy ass in on and reap the benefits of sans work. They’re saying, “No, you need pay not a premium to be treated decently and need not suffer the slings and arrows of Clerktown™: let me offer you, my guy.”

Footnotes

While the phrase is certainly “having a guy,” this type of guy-dom is certainly not gender-bound. I’d suspect the doyennes and the gamines of Gotham “have gals,” too. I’m not privy to those conversations, though.
Watching any of the mafia dramas (e.g. “Sopranos” or “Goodfellas,” et al.) I used to get blown away by how much tipping was always going on. But now I get it: these dons and capos and would-be made men were spreading the magic pixie dust of relationship building so that they could have a network of guys when they needed it.