by Patrick Doyle

My first job was washing dishes at a Mediterranean place while in high school – I was fired after skipping work around Thanksgiving to lay on a floor for a long time. My second job was at a bottle redemption center, which was connected to a liquor store and I held that for three years. It was one of the most horrendous experiences of my life, but there was an allure in the dissecting depravity through plastic and glass reflections of functioning guzzlers. I went to Alaska eventually, came back and told my boss, “I’m never working in that slop-joint again. Forget it. Let me work in the store.” He said there were no positions so I left. Days later, I received an e-mail from the manager of a different store owned by the same people. I could be a cashier, so I took it.

The job was pretty simple: stand behind the counter and give people things they want (booze, lottery tickets, cigarettes, junk food), stock shelves, dust things that collect dust immediately after dusting . . . normal store job things. At first, people would say they wanted their “usual,” which was usually a particular pack of smokes, or a certain pint of booze. Since I didn’t know them, I’d ask what they wanted and they’d get very upset with me. On account of the fact that I don’t think anyone is very special, let alone some faux-entitled chicken-shit, I’d purposely forget what they wanted. One guy even had the nerve to get upset with me for giving him his pennies, saying abrasively as if I told him I’d love to eat his grandchildren, “I don’t take my pennies.” He always received pennies after that.

If you’re nice and not a jerk, then I’m more than willing to be accommodating to you. If you’re a drag, I’m gonna drag you with me. It isn’t science or some complex system of mores, it’s being a decent person. Let’s be pleasant and get this abuse over with. You’ll be happy, I’ll still be standing behind some wood that is nailed together.

I wondered why people treated me so horribly at first. As the only male who works there, I thought maybe a kinship would arise between me and some of these working-class zeroes. Nope. Since my mosquito-bites are less than appealing, I am told by some customers that, “I’m gonna wait in line, she is much better looking than you,” and the she means the female coworker at the next register.

Eventually I started just assuming no one would come to me and I’d read a book instead. Sometimes I’d even write. I can say that some of my best writing has happened while the hot-to-trot-biologically-determined-vixen next to me had three customers deep, drooling like stupid furry dogs on a hot day, keeping the DTs for a few minutes longer so they could buy her a cheap piece of candy that she’d just give to me afterwards when they’d leave. Don’t even get me started on the guy who would load up on lolly-pops at the bank and try to push them like a pusher onto her.

In the wintertime you’d think I was smoking in the store it’s so cold. You can see your breath and the heat doesn’t travel. We got free sweatshirts with the store logo on them because the boss didn’t want to turn up the heat; insanity. This is when I started going on strike. I grabbed a box that was for tallboys and ripped off a piece, scribbling in marker, “ON STRIKE.” Sometimes I’d sit on the rack where the bags of tobacco are and just hold the sign up. Customers loved it and some asked if they could borrow it for work sometime. I came up with a chant that went, “What do we want? (Warmer Conditions!) When do we want it? (Now!)” There is even video evidence of this. I’m not sure how my boss felt about it, but the sign is still there somewhere. It’s a different kind of striking; it’s called a “working strike.” I’ll still help the customers and what not, but when they are not there I’m on strike until conditions improve.

My masterpiece at this job alienated me from a few coworkers whom I never work with, so it couldn’t have been more perfect. I found a rubber rat in the basement one day when clearing through some products and naturally, put it into the cooler. One of my coworkers was stocking the shelf when she had a conniption fit that resulted in her having an absolute meltdown. When she found out it was me who had planted the device, she expressed extreme contempt for me and that I needed to be reprimanded. Nothing ever happened.

Oh, and I still work here.