Yann talks to the cats in front of me. It’s cute because he’s inclusive: he signs simultaneously so that I’ll understand him, even though the cats don’t.
He asked Enfoiré the Perpetually Hungry:
“Do you know how much food you could get for $5?”
“A small bag of treats! That’s it!”
This was Yann’s roundabout way of being snarky about Canada’s response to the news that Mountain Equipment Co-op* is now a lie. It’s not a co-op anymore: the Americans bought it. They paid for it in pennies, and we were like, “Wow, pennies. We haven’t seen those in a long time.”
And now everybody thinks they’re an expert.
Including me. But, I am–sort of–I spent six years of my life working in their service centre. This job had me go around telling new people that I, a deaf person, worked in a call centre.
“The hold music? Yup, those are my vocals.”
Of course, I never took a call: I serviced MEC members via email. This job was 50% copying and pasting the Canada Post tracking number that was sent to them in a separate email, and then relaying the quoted timeline.
“You should receive your package by Monday.”
“Oh, wow. Thank you so much.”
My Canada Post website mastery granted me larger paycheques than what I’ve been bringing home as a bike mechanic. It hardly seems fair considering how long it takes to master software that was written back when PCs had monochrome monitors, compared to trying to keep up with the ever-growing list of bike industry standards. (I believe this call centre job was the only job I’ve ever had that didn’t have me come into contact with poop.)
Then comes along a day like Monday. The service centre is going to be inundated with emails and calls from people asking for the $5 they paid for their MEC membership in 1985 back.
Now, this is where my expertise comes in handy: That $5 membership? It was a share purchase. One had to purchase a share to be a part-owner of the co-op, among millions others. That’s how co-ops work. The more gear you buy, the less closet space you have, and the higher your share value.
Back in those prosperous days (Ha! Remember those?), after a profitable year, members would see their share value shoot up, barring those who hadn’t bought as much as a Clif Bar since ’92: their $5 share would be diluted by the millions who’ve taken ownership of the co-op since then.
Whenever a member’s share value hit the threshold, which was something like $300, MEC would issue a payout. This is because, with the co-op model (MEC’s, anyway), there was a limit to how big one’s piece of the pie could be. As I worked there for so long, I own a goofy amount of outdoor gear and a share value well above $5.
My MEC share value is so high that I could probably feed Enfoiré for two months if the new overlords decide to do a payout of dividends to the millions of part-owners.
Nobody knows what will happen yet.
But, as I scroll through comments like, “I want my $5 back.” I think, “No wonder the co-op model failed if this many part-owners are this clueless.”
There’s been a board of directions election every year in which only a scant percentage of members would care to cast their vote. I remember signing up for my MEC membership when I was living in Calgary in the early 2000s. I wanted a basic black fleece jacket, and upon checkout, I learned that I couldn’t have it unless I paid the $5 membership fee. “Whatever, it’s just $5,” I thought. And this was back when I was earning $9/hr. Like most people, I didn’t care what that $5 meant.
Now, people are quite pressed about having that $5–which likely isn’t $5 anymore–returned to them. As for the slightly-more-knowledgeable others who understand the co-op model: it’s too late. Where was that passion a year ago?
To my old friends at the MEC service centre: I feel for you. This is going to be like the new logo launch times 100.
(*For my American readers, MEC is like REI. And for my European readers, I have no idea what your equivalent is.)