I hate working at the supermarket. If it’s not someone paying in change, it’s an old man returning bad produce. If it’s not someone asking where every item in the goddamn store is located, it’s some horrendous bitch asking me to check the back. If you’re not in already in the know, asking an employee to “check the back” is basically just saying “I think you’re incompetent, so I’m going to make you do more work.” It’s like a big “fuck off.” So that’s what we do. We go fuck off for a while in the back. We work on our sad faces and come back and say: “I’m sorry. We’re all out of that item. May I help you with anything else.”
It’s really a blessing, come to think of it. I used to just wait around in the back, maybe hit the restroom. But then I started making a list while I was in the back about all the things I could do while I’m in the back. Well, when I put my mind to it, I ended up mastering the yo-yo, improving my poetry skills, catching up with some of the Classics like The Odyssey and Chaucer on my phone (I downloaded a book-reading app). Why, I’ve even found clever ways of dicking around with the customers by working on my accents. “Very sorry, love. It looks like our stock has gone sweet fanny Adams on us, if you catch my drift? Well, carry on, then, get some shopping done, cook something for your old man and Bob’s your uncle. Toodle pip!”
On second thought, no everything I do is very enriching for my brain. I’ve even been sneaking off to the back and telling everyone that I’m just “checking the back.” They understand, though I think I’m abusing it a little. I’ve made the back my little break room. It’s my little pleasure palace of boxes and refrigerants. You know, but it’s breaks like these that make me think maybe there is a bit of good in the world. But then I get paged and some old guy returning fruit and paying in change is holding up the lines. Stiff upper lip, old boy. Stiff upper lip.