It all starts in the parking lot. Abandoned carts are scattered throughout the poorly parked cars. The cars vary from rusted, old station wagons, white vans that look as though children are tied up inside them, minivans with stick figure families plastered on the back windows, and cars that you will never be able to afford unless you sold a kidney on the black market. The air smells of leaked oil and air conditioner fluid, stale french fry grease, and despair as you walk toward the building. Your customers chatter with each other throughout the parking lot, not blinking an eye at their screaming children. They don't have a clue that you wished with all of your might that one of them would run you over on your trek from your car to the gates of Hell. You're never that lucky, so you make your way through the doors, putting on your best "I love my job" face as you do so.
Before you can even clock in, you've received two dirty looks, an agitated "excuse me", and a near collision with a toddler not being watched by his or her parents. As always, the shift is off to a fantastic start. You press the sticky buttons on the time clock, selling your soul to the devil for the day's allotted time, but we all know you will be asked to stay over, even though you have other things to be doing.
The store is chaos. People in business suits and workout attire are speed-walking through the aisles, trying to get their shopping done so they can go home and relax. Moms with multiple kids are pushing carts full of junk food, dragging along their whining toddlers and attempting to listen to their preteen tell a story about their friend's irrelevant relationship. Women dressed in their finest Betty Boop pajama pants are having a ten-minute conversation right in front of the shelves that you're supposed to be stocking. You've only been there for half an hour and you've already considered quitting three times.
You look to your coworkers for motivation, but they're equally as fed up. You all rock the signature bags under your eyes. You joke about things that would sound horrid to any normal person, but you work in retail so you're immune to morbid topics. The back room of your department not only serves as a storage area, but also as a place to let off steam. The cooler isn't only a place to keep things cool, but also a great dungeon to cry in. If you don't know what I'm talking about, you haven't worked there long enough yet.
Your managers expect you to go above and beyond for the minimum wage paychecks you receive. "Fill this, do that, clean the floors, sacrifice your soul to Satan in the store's name, be nice to customers." You are expected to work over your shift even though you have ten other things you need to be doing at home, but they don't want to pay you overtime, so they just send you home with a dirty look. You're no longer looked at as a human, but their machine.
The second it's time for you to clock out, you're at the time clock. The pressing of that button gives you a release, and the chains are broken. You're a free slave until the next shift. You can finally wipe off that fake customer service face, and return to the normal, grouchy human being that you normally are. Congratulations, you made it through another day in Hell.
