Wal-Mart

When I left my house I was actually in a decent mood despite the fact that a nine hour shift lay ahead of me.  It was a warm, gorgeous summer day.  The kind of day when taking back roads is worth the extra couple of minutes just to roll down the windows and enjoy the breeze.  Driving to work using the back roads actually didn't make me despair; I could pretend that I was taking a short trip to the mall or Barnes and Nobles or the ice rink instead of work.   Listening to the radio, I zoned out and tried not to think about where I going. 

Eventually though, I found myself pulling into the giant parking lot for the store that always greeted me with a giant smiley face.  Sometimes, I feel like those smiley faces are meant more as a sarcastic mockery for the workers at this store because very little about working here makes one sincerely smile.  Finding a spot on the side of the building furthest away from the entrances, I begrudgingly grabbed my blue smock, checked to make sure my name tag was on it, and crawled out of the car silently grumbling to myself.  Why didn't I wake up earlier to enjoy the day somewhat? 

If there was some sort of device that could gauge my mood as I walked to the back of the store to clock in, one would marvel at how my mood steadily declined to feelings of bitterness and depression by the time I reached the swinging doors.  There was a line at the time clock as my coworkers tried to punch out or in for their shifts.  This was usual and though I always managed to be at the end of it resulting in my clocking in a minute or two late, the idea of arriving even a second before to make sure I was at the head of the line was just not worth it.  Swiping my name tag through the machine three of four times, it finally beeped letting me know that I had clocked in at 3:02pm.  Shoving everything but my phone and a small notebook into my locker I made my way back down to the front of the store making sure to take the longest route and walking as slow as possible.  

When one of my managers notices me, she tells me to go to register 9.  As if an announcement was made over the intercom that I would be opening register nine, people raced to make themselves the first or second in line.  There are very few things that I've mastered but pasting on a sincere looking smile and forcing my voice to sound upbeat and cheerful all while wanting to curse at everyone are two of things I've got down to a science.  My first customer only has two items: grapes and motor oil.  This is not as unusual a combination as one might think.  Motor oil, pesticides, paint, and all sorts of harsh chemicals always seem to be paired with some sort of fruit like a peach or an apple.  My second customer has three small children hanging onto her carriage; two were now crying because she refused to allow them to take the candy.  Ignoring her sobbing children, she says to me, "It's such a nice day out.  We're going to the beach.  You shouldn't be in here."  I know she means well but it was irritating to hear it said out loud like that. 

Multiple hours pass in a dull monotony of purchases and people until a man in his maybe in his forties comes to my register.  Without thinking I give him a smile and ask, "how are you?"  With a giant grunt he tells me that he's miserable.  I always hate it when people say that because I never know quite how to respond and end up saying, "that's too bad. Did find everything you were looking for?"  He releases another snort through his nose saying, "You don't care that I'm miserable! Not everyone is happy like you."  Normally I choose to ignore these types of people but today I don't particularly feel like it and as I hand him his bag I say, "Sir, with all due respect, I am working at Wal-Mart."