While I was on my lunch break in the Burger King drive-thru line to obtain the fake Whopper that would punish me four times in twelve hours, I had an epiphany: I don’t care about my job anymore. But then I had a big question: what am I supposed to care about then?
Straight ahead in front of me, beyond the restaurant, was a line of tall, skinny, leafy trees. They were rippling in the late afternoon sunshine, the kind that lets us know summer will be over soon, and the tops had already begun to fade into dry watercolors. The image in my mind was the contrast between the girl I once was and the girl-woman I am now, what I had wanted and what I have now.
Inside my clear plastic purse was a piece of scrap paper with some calculations on it. We are required to use these bags to discourage us from stealing. For a retail worker, the temptation to steal is overwhelming. I cannot fathom how I’ve resisted for so long.
The calculations revealed that I make 55% more money than the minimum wage when I started (an impressive feat all on its own, considering that earning a ten cent raise is a Big Deal). Nine years later, when the minimum wage rises again next month, I will be making 6.6% more than that new minimum.
When I’m alone, it’s a dangerous pastime, harmful to my health, to try and reconcile these numbers with my education level, the amount of debt I’m in, and the type of work I perform. I can’t figure out what sort of calculus will prove me innocent. But I already know the answer. It’s my fault.
It’s hard to explain to people who weren’t unlucky enough to wind up in retail how heartbreaking it is. You endure indignities so absurd, contradictory, and plain silly that no one outside would ever believe that something that trivial could destroy your soul, since the amount of money you make is proportional to your righteous stress.
Get a real job.
For example, recently I was told that I would not be reviewed on my administrative work performance but on, among other things that don’t apply to me, customer surveys. When I inquired why that might be, they snapped back at me, “everyone is supposed to care about the customer!” Obviously I don’t care about customers. Never did. But it’s puzzling because I don’t receive surveys.
All joking aside, it felt like a stab in the heart because I’ve given them everything in order to excel at my job, to the point where I’ve gotten sick a few times. But the 6.6%? I only felt sort of numb. And I think that’s the precise moment when I officially stopped caring, when I finally got it through my head that my efforts don’t matter.
Why don’t I ask for a raise? I already did within the past year. I was told no, I already make too much money for my years of experience.
What else do I have left to give them? The only thing I had continued to give was caring, despite all my claims to the contrary. But ever since I spent three months on the furlough that robbed me of future PTO, I discovered that the inner girl who predated all that crap is actually still alive in there. She remembers the truth that they beat out of me—that I exist. But being told she’s only worth 6.6% above minimum wage after nine years makes her want to up and leave me again.
During the furlough, my job seemed like a bad memory, as though I died and went to heaven; my earthly life was just an ugly little blot to be quickly forgotten, and there would be no more crying nor pain, because the former things had passed away.
But, alas, the former things returned. At first I came back with a completely new, fresh frame of mind. I had gotten back in touch with the things I loved before and I didn’t wish to give that feeling up. But now I’m relapsing into my old behavior: talking shit, melting down, rehashing every slight, whining, stressing, raving, crying. I’m bringing everything home with me again and leaving myself in my locker. My soul wants to force its way out of me, but to go where?
Before I was out, writing had been the place to go; it gave me something to look forward to, to pretend that my day job just meant a paycheck. A small paycheck, but a paycheck nonetheless. I was excited when I was at work thinking about what I’d get to do when I got home. I finally had a little hope for the future. And it made it easier to let things roll off my back. Being away was even better; now I could make pretend that I was living the life I had always wanted. But now that I’m back? I feel worse than I did before I started taking writing seriously. 6.6% means I’m going backwards, which means the future is getting further away.
The less I care, the more my work slips. I’m not a rigid perfectionist anymore. I don’t bother doing those special little tasks they don’t know about, the ones that secretly lighten their burdens. I take advantage of the fact I have a new supervisor who doesn’t quite know what I should be doing and how fast it should take. This isn’t me, at all. This was never me. But I’m at the point where I’d like to put my conscientiousness somewhere it deserves. I think if writing still gave me the burst of hope it did before, my pride would rouse me up. But right now I can only give them 6.6% of my conscience.
A human being must have something to look forward to in order to escape depression. To be in a position to look forward to writing every day, like it’s a bodily urge, is a blessing. To not even mind very much if no one sees it? That’s divine. But to possess the strength to keep forging ahead when you’re only worth 6.6%…? That’s another thing entirely.
Who the Hell Knows? 
Wishing you luck
It is amazing how certain work places change us. I am glad your writing brings you joy.
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Thanks so much 😊
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Welcome
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Hi Hot,
Do you have a cat or dog? An animal can be a big help. Maybe your place doesn’t allow one, but a doc or therapist can write a letter that requires a pet for health reasons. Just a thought. Good luck in any case. Duke
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I wish. Department stores frown on that. I don’t think I could swing that one. Although I have been playing the medical excuse card left and right lately. I’m trying to carve out a nice comfy little cubby for myself that they can’t make me leave.
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Copywriters make bank. AWAI American Writers and Artists Institute.
You already have a nice, smooth, personable writing style. I don’t know if you are really looking to get paid or if this is just a VERY relatable experience you are sharing. If you are thinking about a career in writing, it might be worth checking out.
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That’s very kind of you to say that about my writing. It’s funny you mention copywriting because I did earn a certificate in copywriting through an online correspondence course many moons ago. I know I am an idiot for not pursuing it but I was too intimidated to try. I’ve changed a lot since then, though, so thank you for reminding me about that.
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The next time you’re at work, select three people who appear or act oddly. Make a note of these folks, give them names and give them sinister pastimes that they pursue in basements or attics.
Make it a habit of observing people, (what else do you have to do?) and creating a library of characters.
Then take two of those characters and have them meet at the food court, fighting over the gloomiest seat in the area.
Report your story here.
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You know, several years ago I built this semi-fictional edifice of a department store and all the characters were based on people at work. It was a whole saga of assholes and unfortunate events. It was supposed to be funny, but I think I gave up when too many of my scenarios came true.
I accept your challenge. And my boss will not count as one of them! She’s a bonus though.
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While the work has certainly slowed during the pandemic and is just starting to come back, I’ve been making my life as a freelance writer/ghostwriter for the last six years, after about 20 years in the day-to-day, go-to-a-job. Some months there’s a ton of money in it and other months it’s a steady diet of ramen, but I’ve never been happier. I needed to leave the rat race as part of my addiction recovery, but it’s the best move I ever made. I now know I’d rather be happy and broke than angry and rich. Sure, there are assignments that don’t speak to my soul, but I’m guessing you’re not exactly getting that nourished at work. At least you can wear pajamas at home. Fiction will never pay the bills — or at least won’t from the beginning, and I’d steer anyone away from writing their own books (I, of course, can’t listen to my own advice and have 5 out there) because there’s no money there, but that’s where I do nourish my soul, on my terms. Consider making a switch. You’re a better writer than I am. It’s a hustle at first until you get some regular clients, and it’s always a hustle to some degree, but the quality of life is so much higher and it seems like you could use a big quality-of-life booster shot right now. Go for it.
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You’re way too kind, and thank you for your advice. I appreciate your understanding the quality of life issue. You’re definitely right I could use a booster shot right now. I’m broke and unhappy! Broke but happy would be an upgrade, and a little more money would be like winning lotto. Going for it is just so hard when you feel like you can’t do anything. Starting this blog had actually been a “go for it” thing. I paid for the cheapest plan a year ago to have skin in the game and I still sat on it until six months ago. But it was a big Fuck It step for me to write my first post, and it at least gives me some hope that there’s enough fuck it left in me to do it again.
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I worked in Burger the King, so I knew in some subliminal way I was giving people something to think about, I´m just a humanitarian. And you are absolutely correct if we as humans don´t have a goal to look forward to, why wake up?
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Thank you for stopping by here. I hadn’t realized that Burger King was sending me a message through that unforgiving Impossible Whopper. Now that you mention it, the experience WAS very symbolic. I wish I had thought of that angle before.
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Well, you do not want to know what went in to some burgers before it was rested on the costumer.
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Builds the immune system.
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Really interesting. Again, after taking another travel through time on your blog, it seems that perhaps a change in industries is going to serve you well. Maybe your subconscious is hating retail with all its heart, and it’s manifesting as negative feels in your conscience. But enough of woo-woo. Anyway, hello from the future!
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Haha you found another classic post. I remember that day. Sort of. Thanks for looking at these, I get a real kick out of it.
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