I'm sorry to start out with such an overused cliche', but days like this make me think I should have listened to my mother. She told me to go to dental hygenist school. She warned me. "Maddy," she'd said in her high-pitched voice that was half speaking, half shrieking, "Maddy, you have to have something to fall back on."
I remember telling her how unappealing the idea of staring down the throats of dozens of strangers while scraping tarter, nicotine and coffee stains off of hundreds of filthy teeth every day was to me. I couldn't envision anything worse.
How wrong I was.
"Don't forget to put my bread over to the side," commanded this middle aged woman before me. "I don't want it all smashed up at the end of the belt." I briefly glanced up at her from the scanner unit and smiled the obligatory "customer service" smile while assuring her that her slices of whole-grain wheat would remain in their intended form while in my capable hands.
"Yes, ma'am."
I'd passed the halfway point in my shift, thankfully. During my lunch break Mr. Arsenty, the store manager, had descended from the upstairs offices to talk with me about my possibilities for future advancement. While he'd been blathering on, I'd been exhibiting my mastery of a much-practiced and valuable skill: appearing as though I'm paying attention. My thoughts during this time were wide-ranging. I was mildly irritated that Mr. Arsenty was using up my lunch break to discuss company business. I noted my complete lack of excitement at the prospect of donning a dusty gold polyester Assistant Manager's smock instead of the burnt orange polyester Cashier's smock I was currently wearing. I hypothesized about the reasons i would even be considered for a promotion and could only come up with two possibilities. Either it was because my drawer always balanced within five cents at the end of every shift or my eyes had reached the appropriate level of dimness and lack of sparkle or life for me to qualify for a managerial promotion.
At this last thought I stopped faking eye-contact with Mr. Arsenty and genuinely looked in them for some indication of how depressingly dead an individual would have to be inside in order to reach the "Store Manager" rung of this corporate nightmare. Just how accepting of the monotony and pointless policy and union dues and supervisory control does a person have to reach Mr Arsenty's pinnacle position?
I didn't like what I saw behind his glasses.
"So," he'd continued, oblivious that I had no idea from what he was continuing, "do you think you're ready for the management training program?"
I reacted as though I was scripted. I feigned interest and enthusiasm for the opportunity and was acceptably disgusting with my "thank you"s to be convincing, and just as I felt my stomach contract and convulse to the point where I might have blown my lunch all over the man's shoes, my break was over. I went back to my register.
Scan the items, push them down the belt to the bagger(red polyester vest) ring up the total. . . cash, check or charge? Over and over again for 8 hours, it's enough to make me hope for an aneurism or freak natural disaster, just to break up this intolerable rhythm, the humiliating monotonous "have a nice day" lies that come with every receipt.
Could manning the customer service desk in a gold smock possibly be any less spiritually draining than what I was already doing? I doubted it. I doubted it more with every bit of thought devoted.
"Hey, watch out for my bread, will ya?" It was an elderly woman's voice but when I looked to the source of it I saw nothing but a featureless head, a blank face.
I stared blankly for a moment with the loaf of bread in my hands. Only the alarmed sound of the woman's distinct objections made me aware that my fists were smashing the loaf into a misshapen unrecognizable blob.
I handed it back to her. If I had seen her face I probably would have seen it angry or upset. As it was, however, I smiled.
"Have a nice day," I told her. For the first time I was sincere.
I left the smock lying in my parking space as I drove home to call my mother.