A mystery shopper’s life is one of meticulously tracking and recording minutiae.Daniel Fishel
Facts & Arguments is a daily personal piece submitted by readers. Have a story to tell? See our guidelines.
Apparently, we're aging – especially some of us. Me, in particular. Who knew? So I need to do stuff with my brain. You know, word searches, crossword puzzles, sudoku; write a daily haiku like back in Grade 5; get out more; take in Wednesday-night bingo at St. Saviour's; learn Cantonese.
Which explains how, when my pension portfolio tanked a while back, I let my financial wellness coach talk me into mystery shopping – to exercise my grey cells as well as earn some pin money.
"Picture yourself having a fun, well-paying job that takes you to different places all the time and treats you to free food, free merchandise and free entertainment," the employment ads for mystery shoppers said. "A flexible job where you're in control and get to create your own schedule. A job where you actually get paid to tell people what you think!"
So here I am, all hours of the week, fighting traffic from "Burgerama" to "HyperBank," passing myself off as a regular customer while actually checking out the premises, evaluating product and assessing service. Not glamorous, maybe. Or meaningful, exactly. And way underpaid, even for pin money. But it gets me out of myself as I step down from the academic's ivory tower into the swamp of the real world.
It's a steep learning curve. I'm realizing there really are correct and incorrect answers – it's not all grey out there, some of it is black and white. I'm learning to closely read directions and follow them to a T; to keep time to the second (reporting rounded times will invalidate my shop), and I'm filling in endless forms online, uploading receipts, photos, audios.
A mystery shopper's life is one of meticulously tracking and recording minutiae. I need to notice, remember and non-judgmentally describe store employees, gas-station attendants, airport ambassadors, bank managers: gender; height (but not weight or shape); hair colour, length and style; distinguishing characteristics. But never refer to age, ethnicity or language ability. If I refer to something inappropriate, my report may receive a lower score or be rejected, and I may not get paid or considered for future assignments.
So, here I am at First Gas, stepping inside to pay for $5 worth of fuel, registering and memorizing all kinds of data for reporting:
Did the Customer Service Representative acknowledge you within 10 seconds? Check.
Did the CSR offer you a polite greeting? Check.
Did the CSR smile when greeting you? Check.
Was the CSR attentive and prompt in serving you? Check.
Did the CSR have on an approved uniform and were they neat and tidy in appearance? Check.
Did you obtain the name of the CSR? … If not, why not? If yes, what is their name?
All the hard work I've just put into inspecting the forecourt, the pump islands, the pumps, the signage, the water and air station, the men's washroom – with attention to supply of paper towels and toilet paper, cleanliness of floors, sinks, toilet bowl, waste container and urinals, odour presence – or absence of – is about to go into a puff of nothing. They will reject my audit when I don't report the name of the CSR, whose luxurious frizzy hair is covering her upper left chest area, where her name tag is (or maybe isn't).
My first reaction is the shock of being blindsided. Followed by outrage at being robbed of my due. Frustration. Resentment. Paranoia – mystery shop providers are out to trip you up. That's it, I'm quitting!
But as I turn to leave, I remember the teachings of my Financial Wellness Coach: "Where's the learning opportunity in all this?" There are perspectives other than the victim's. I do have choices. What would my Future Self call out to me? How can I tap into my Naturally Creative Resourceful and Whole inner self? Who can I be in this situation?
Right. I'm not going to blame the CSR, or judge her luxurious frizzy hair. I'm going to Hold Her in the Light, offer her Unconditional Positive Regard. Relate to her. Connect with her. Bless her.
I look deeply into her eyes, not forgetting to register: female; 5-foot-6; dark hair, shoulder length; glasses; gold ring through left nostril (I'll be allowed to write that – it qualifies as a distinguishing characteristic).
I take a deep breath and ask, carelessly, as she prints my receipt: "Er … do you happen to know Mo Dhaliwal?"
"No-o-o ," she answers, slowly and warily.
"Hmmm, " I ponder.
"Name's not familiar," she says. "Is she from around here?"
"He – it's a he, actually," I say. "The previous owner/manager. He told me to give a shout-out to a … a Supriya, that's the name, she's supposed to be tall, dark, and … like, beautiful. You're not Supriya by any chance, are you?"
"No-o-o," she smiles skeptically. "And I don't know a Supriya. I've only been working here a few days. I'm Marge, by the way."
"Marge? What a name, Marge! Good to meet you, Marge. I'll tell Mo I ran into you. He'll be thrilled this place is in such good hands."
Meguido Zola gets by in Vancouver.