A Hard Days Night

Everyone must work at some point in their life, and at some point they will not enjoy the work they are doing. The situation I find myself in as I sit in my 1997 dodge intrepid with a dark green paint job that gradually fades as it reaches the top of the car; is one of apathy of will to clock into the boredom that is retail service.
The smoke from my cigarette flows smoothly in the interior of my fogging windshield as the defrost slowly subsides from performing its function. I turn the radio from one station to the next in hopes of hearing a good song before I sale my time to the slave owner that is a large corporation. I subside with my hope shortly to find only commercials exist on the radio and some stupid pop-queen song where the rise to fame can be describe as a shooting star; or a temporary fad that lacks any talent.
I inhale one final time the treat that is “sacred” to some native American cultures, then toss the burning butt of the filter into the car next to me (its windows were rolled down in the middle of winter; I just felt like I had to take notice of this situation next to me by adding some anonymous mark that I at least perceived their window was down). I open the driver side door to step out into the freezing weather that January is so well known for; and by putting one foot in front of the other I gradually make my way to K-Mart’s dreaded entrance.
I walk through two sets of sliding automatic doors that have become a cliché for any department store in America. The cheesy sales line the columns of shelves for any house wife to get excited about… then forget about later; and the traditional atmosphere that is suppose to make you feel welcome and at home with is the environment one will perceive here.
A child is screaming at the top of her lungs because she can’t have candy that is so manipulatively lining the checkout lines. Her mother is trying to hide the annoyance that comes with department store checkout lanes and toddlers, while the OCD manager gives me a dirty look for being late again. I walk past her all the same and pass the jewelry counter that leads to the lingerie department. I see a couple of blonds and a very fine looking red-head exploring the glory that is shopping, while I enjoy the perk that comes with doing… whatever I do here. Honestly, I never paid the slightest bit of attention to the orientation, and basically fast forward through all the training videos they made me watch. I mean, they left me alone to watch some boring-ass stupid videos that I don’t care shit for; so obviously I’m going to speed up the grueling ritual. And not to mention more than half the things they teach you are so easy I could do them perfectly well drunk. Although, that was an exaggeration, but then again so is their teaching method. They’re all high and mighty just because they worked the same mind-numbing job for twenty years so that they can make manager and sell the rest of their life away for shitty benefits. Wahoo! I couldn’t care less about performing a job that any untrained ape could do; but it’s the American way, and I’d be damned if I broke such patriotic rituals. We are a traditional species, and why break tradition in the name of common sense?
I suddenly end up seeing the big cheese floating around the electronics department, while counting his chickens every other hour. I try to avoid such authority by walking down the opposite aisle with those “support our troops” pop country singers trashing up good taste, but as the non-existence of luck would have it…
“Why are you late again?” the big cheese said.
Thinking about it for a second, than transitioning my focus to the CD sale that included Animals by Pinkfloyd (which apparently leaves boss’s with the idea that you just told them to “fuck off”) and wondering if ten dollars for a CD might still be too much; the big cheese says “Hey! Aren’t you going to answer me?”
“Yeah… I just had car problems,” I said with the feeling that it came out as a question.
Starting to look like a tomato that is past its prime; he replies, “Again!?”
“It appears so,” I said with a sarcastic touch to it, but not really meaning too. Getting a little bored and anxious about such technicality complainers, I added “and you’re just making me later by the second.”
Standing there in his white collared shirt and graying hair that knows a thing or two about baldness, he says “Well, I see then.” And walks off with his clipboard to continue recounting his chickens.
Being in the same situation a few times before with employers (meaning truancy, apathy, slacking off, and a lack of care for selling merchandise) I knew what was probably going to happen, but surprisingly Mr. All American anal to the core corporate guy didn’t take me off the schedule for another three weeks; when usually it takes to the end of that day and/or week for the firing to occur. But in all honesty I hated the job. All one does is stand behind a counter, ring stupid items up for middle-class housewife’s (or the occasional perk of some really fine ditsy females who lives to shop) with their winy kids. For the rest of the day you put unwanted items back, while pushing a cart around the store as slow as you can to avoid being asked by your superiors to clean something up; your entertainment being old 50’s songs playing on some radio that is periodically interrupted by a voice looking for someone or asking for assistance. But in all honesty, isn’t this the puritan work ethic that America was built on?