How Student Workers Viewed Rush

College stores have always relied on their student workers. But over the years, many stores have had to grapple with the fact that they’re often not able to pay student employees at the same rate as other local employers.

In fact, the “lowly status” of student worker wages was among the topics discussed by the 20 store managers attending the October 1923 meeting where the College Bookstore Association was born, according to an account of the gathering. (Other topics were expanding trade-book sections, faculty relations, merchandising difficulties, employee training, the need for more store space, publicity, “selling problems,” and getting their schools to pass regulations forbidding faculty from selling books and supplies to students.)

The account noted students were earning just 40 to 75 cents per hour back then, with total bookstore payroll only making up 6% or 7% of gross revenues.

On the other hand, it’s a lot more fun—and looks better on a post-graduation resume—to work at the campus store than some other part-time jobs open to students, except maybe during rush.

In 1981, The College Store Journal magazine reprinted several articles written by students about their campus bookstore which were originally published in their campus newspapers. Two were written by student employees about their rush experiences: “The Confessions Of A Bookstore Employee” by a University of Vermont student and “Help, I’m Trapped In A College Bookstore” by a Hillsborough Community College student. Their humorous tales of working in the store may sound familiar today. Scroll down to read both from the April/May 1981 issue.

Help, I’m Trapped In A College Bookstore

Submitted by Sarah Emerson, Manager of the Hillsborough Community College Bookstore in Tampa, Florida. Written by Rita Diefenderfer who was Sarah’s student assistant at the time and was a student writer for their school’s tri-campus newspaper, The Tri-Camp. The column appeared May 16, 1978.

Standing behind my counter at the Dale Mabry bookstore during the first week of the spring term was an educational and terrifying experience. Suddenly the crowd surged forward and I realized they were going to attack in force. As the mob burst forward, checks, IDs, and old textbooks in hand, I feared loss of control. What to do … where to turn … my heart pounded … my mouth turned dry, and I realized there was no backing out. The “rush” had officially started.

Now, working in a college bookstore is usually an extremely pleasant job … except during the rush. Distinct personality types come suddenly and fervently to the forefront.

There is Anxious Anne, who knows we will sell all seven hundred eighty-three textbooks before she reaches the counter, and Crusty Craig who answers all questions with a grunt and a frown, spreading sunshine about him. Tough Ted demands to know why he has to have some ID in order to write a check. Curious Cindy wants to know how much the bookbag on the bottom of the pile costs and then buys the one on the top.

Gregarious Gary had a class with you last term and wants to talk all about the break while twenty people wait in line behind him fuming. Scatterbrained Sally leaves her class list at home and is never sure of the name of her course, but wants the right text.

Polite Paul lets all of his friends in line, making Angry Andy at the end of the line furious. Questioning Quinn wants to know if you’re sure this is the book store.

Dangerous Dan pushes his paper cup into the ashtray, starting a small fire as Maddening Martha continues to fumble through her purse looking for a penny so she can give you the right change.

Meanwhile back at the counter, I’m still trying to figure out where the erasing shields have been moved to. I continue to marvel at the line multiplying and looking like an enormous serpent ready to strike. The green shows on my register tape and I realize I’m going to have to explain to thirty people that they’ll have to wait while I change the tape. When I turn my back, the thought passes through my mind, “Will the crowd turn ugly?”

The tape is changed after stubbornly refusing to thread properly. The line has continued to grow and I listen intently hearing the words “lynch” and “attack” muttered and I’m afraid they mean me.

I ring up two more transactions and realized I’m now out of ones, quarters, and pennies. I imagine I can hear hysterical laughter on the other side of the store. Oh, no … I hope another student assistant hasn’t cracked.

Macho Mike comes forward to buy an Almond Joy and I find myself nervously stuffing the candy bar into the register as I hand him his money back. Wow, I think … I’ve finally been here an hour … only four more to go.

As the day progresses, my tongue begins to turn traitor and I answer questions with questions; my fingers refuse to function and my hearing goes. I am positive USF and Tampa U have sent their students to us when I see the still-growing lines.

I realize I have just sold my thousandth piece of bubble gum and didn’t even blow the bugle in recognition.

Suddenly, it’s over and it’s time to leave. I anxiously wait for my relief, collect my belongings and sign out. I’m at the door ready to leave and realize I have forgotten to buy my books, don’t have my ID, my change has spilled into the bottom of my purse and I’ve left my class schedule at home.

Who says there isn’t any justice? I sigh and search for the end of the line.

The Confessions Of A Bookstore Employee

Submitted by C. Hosmer Graham, Manager of The University Store, University of Vermont, Burlington, Vermont. Written by Guy Page, a bookstore temporary employee. Reproduced from The Vermont Cynic, September 18, 1980, The University of Vermont undergraduate newspaper: copyright The Vermont Cynic 1980, Sarah T. Bailey, Editor.

During the first two weeks of September, I checked purses and offered plastic bags to thousands of UVMers charging through their semi-annual textbook rush on the University Store. The attractiveness of the job is not the focus of this story; three months of unemployment had depleted my self-respect and Heritage savings account.

Although I never took Psych I, it hit me halfway through my ham and cheese on the second day that the entrance to the bookstore was a laboratory. Almost every UVMer was a participant and I, an observer. This story is what I saw.

First, I’m only an alum (got my paper in ’79), and I believe that students know and practice courtesy. Seriously. They cascaded me with never-ending “yes, thank you’s,” and “no, thank you’s.” I expected streams of spoiled undergrads to rip bags from my outstretched hands.

Three students were impolite; one every four days. Maybe the polite majority of students were recently freed from bringing food to Cape Cod tourists or stocking shelves at the local Grand Union. Maybe they knew that treating workers like robots causes more turnover than earning three dollars and ten cents an hour.

Faculty/Staff, unfortunately, were different.

“Excuse me, ma’am. During the first two weeks of school we’re asking everyone to lock their purses into a locker,” I’d say to the well-dressed (definitely post-graduate) woman.

“But I’m not a student. I’m a member of the faculty.” She may have been thinking, “Only students steal,” but she didn’t say so.

“I’m sorry. We’re asking everyone not to bring their purses on the floor.” I saw her grip tighten and her back stiffened. Aw, I thought, here we go again.

“Stick it,” she cooed, fanning my face with her middle digit. In the stratified society that is UVM, possession of a Ph.D. lets you beat the servants.

Some complainers—a group that also includes mothers—might benefit from a course in listening.

“Ma’am, we’re asking everyone to lock their purses,” I’d say.

“I’m not leaving my purse out for anyone to steal!”

“Yes, ma’am. If you like, you can put it in a locker for a quarter, which you get back after you’re through.”

“You mean I have to pay for it?” Knuckles whiten on purse straps.

“No, ma’am. You get the quarter back after you’re through with the locker.”

“How can I pay for the stuff if I can’t bring my wallet with me?”

“Oh, but you can bring it with you,” I’d growl, and on it went. Once was funny, even twice, but three or four times every hour?

Some of you may have noticed that I, a male, complain only about females. I am not sexist. Who know why only three men out of thousands resented parting with their packs, syllabuses, and hilighters?

I’m not an apologist for the UVM Store. But tight preventive security is the best solution for a bad situation. High book prices, the low price offered students for last semester’s books, the long lines and the lack of security on the sales floor make stealing books temptingly easy to rationalize. Prevention is better than the cure of searching everyone on their way out.

Cussing a store guard shows one admirable trait: a disinclination to conform. Students showed little talent for individuality in other ways.

I noticed an influx of alligators (of the Izod-Lacoste variety) in a land already crawling with them. Time says the preppie look is back. It never left Camp Catamount, and besides, whoever paid attention to Time anyway?

[Guy goes on to devote several more paragraphs to lamenting the proliferation of alligator-embossed shirts on campus. Then he concludes:]

Sorry folks, but there it is: those who wear alligators look unspecial, like lemmings.

There’s more, but why bother? I’ve already got Greeks, women, and faculty mad at me. But if someone offers you a similar job, take it. The observer sees a lot more than a participant.