Graveyard Sucks

I have to keep telling myself that it's only a fucking job. But it just gets to you sometimes, you know? You bust your ass to work hard, to do everything right, to give it your all, and the only reward you get out of it is not getting fired. A lot of old timers keep telling me that there used to be a time when you had something to show for your effort: a nice home, a generous retirement, a highly esteemed reputation within the company. Well, it ain't like that anymore. Now there's only shit pay, long hours, and punishment for making mistakes.

If you haven't guessed by now, I had a pretty bad day at work. Actually, it was a pretty bad night, I should say, since I work the graveyard shift. The night itself wasn't so bad if you don't count all the annoying homeless people who give you hard time; but come the morning, just ten minutes before clocking out and riding high, looking forward to a hard earned day off, my supervisor counts my register and grimly reports that it's short five dollars. And, she adds, yesterday it was short fourteen dollars. Talk about taking all the air out of my little balloon. I honestly don't know how my register came up short. I try so hard to be exact. One more screw up like that and I'll get probated, and suffer further humiliation by having someone watch over me while I ring. I almost broke out in tears--almost. I refuse to cry in public.

But for an agonizingly long ten minutes I had to hold it all in and keep ringing up sales, like a good little store monkey. I didn't do a very good job at keeping my composure. Even if I didn't cry, my attitude was still kind of pissy. That's because the guy I was checking out was a right dickface idiot who couldn't tell his own ass from a hole in the ground.

I don't want to get into what happened there. What happened is what always happens with customers, because customers are all the same: spoiled, helpless little children with a self-entitltement complex--all because they're spending money on you, and have been brought up in that good ol' American aphorism 'The customer is always right.' I can't think of a more corruptible phrase. By the way customers act their cash couldn't have been holier if it had fallen out of the Virgin Mary's ginny. Okay, the whole of them aren't that bad. But they come pretty damn close.You can measure their egos in dollars and cents; no matter how much or how little they spend they're trading more than just currency--they're trading sacrifice of dignity and self respect. And boy, do I know the feeling every time I had to steal away into a bathroom stall and just grit my teeth. I know dollar is never just a dollar. Even when you have it right there in your hand, it doesn't seem to exist. At least, that's the way it is for poor fucks like me. Our money doesn't 'grow,' as in make a profit, and neither do we get to keep it for very long. Over time, a numbness sets in after seeing bank accounts of less then twenty dollars month after month. Every day you go to work it feels like you're doing time. For eight hours you're stuck there. You're not free to do what you want, to say what you want, or to be your own person, and the hours drag and drag with you doing the same old routine you did the night before: scan, ring, bag...scan, ring, bag...scan, ring, bag. Work feels like forever, but the money never stays. In my case, it goes straight to those things needed to keep me alive and sane, which is ironic since working so hard for it stresses my body and spirit.

It's just a job. It's just stupid job.

This is my mantra.

Actually, I feel a bit better now that I've written about it. Hopefully my next entry won't be such a downer.