Ok, maybe you think a six-inch boner is nothing to shout about? I beg to differ.
So it went down like this. I was working inventory at Jordan Marsh in the 80s. Now this was back before scanner guns, computer assisted ordering, and just-in-time delivery; back when stores actually kept huge amounts of backstock. And, after a while, perhaps after a manager or two had been promoted or fired, nobody had any idea what was out back anymore, and they had to send a team of people to find out.
Each night, we'd head to the stockroom, armed with a pen and a thick sheaf of paper, to climb up into the storage bins and write down what we found there. For every item, you had to write the item description, exactly as it was printed on the package, followed by the item code.
My partner Sean and I took turns climbing up into the bins, which were usually pretty filthy. One of us would shout down the information, the other would write it down. You never knew what you would find. Some bins might have only two or three large items. Others were full of little things. It could take hours if that happened.
So I climbed up into a bin. It was full of cutlery. Shit. We're going to be here all night. I picked up the first item and smiled.
Sean, you ready?
Yeah.
Six-inch boner!
(laughter)
No. Really. Six-inch boner... 34580-62374.
Seriously?
Yeah.
There were hundreds of them. And that's how I came to spend an entire evening shouting out "SIX-INCH BONER!"
Respectfully Yours,
Cricket
