Rude customers, restocking destroyed shelves, and sales goals are just parts of the broad complaint spectrum that comes with working in that dying industry.
Those of you who have not had to deal with it, consider yourself lucky.
After a 7 month stint of crushing post-college unemployment, I eventually wound up in one of these jobs. Don't get me wrong, the people I worked with were some of the best I have ever met in my life. The job itself was borderline soul crushing, which bonded us all together in collective misery.
At that time in my life, the only solace I took was inside my own head. Daydreaming of alternate futures for yourself was just one way of keeping my brain from going numb as I restocked over-priced sneakers for the 5th time that day. Daydreams kept me from kicking over entire pallets of pool toys, as I unloaded them from a truck at 6 a.m.
At least I had a job, I would tell myself.
Sometimes it worked, most of the time it didn't.
Why not imagine yourself living the good life in some alternate dimension?
Tapping into those past waves of angst, I wrote the following:
Daydreams
The parking lot is jam packed.
Full of stickered SUV's,
Bedazzled minivans,
And beleaguered by lost carts.
Trudging over the asphalt,
She reached the automatic door.
A massive blast of cool air,
The high point of her day.
Her eyes adjust slowly,
A hellish barrage of fluorescence.
It lays on top of everything,
A fake, resilient sheen.
At last, she's in the break room,
With slightly better lighting.
Darker, and vaguely dingy,
It mostly hides the chipped paint.
Tossing on her faded vest,
She jams on a peeling name tag.
It reminds them she has a name,
Whether they care or not.
Out onto the white-washed floor
They bob and weave,
Hunting from rack to rack,
Chimps plucking their finest ticks
The slog begins, yet again.
Hangers yanked apart,
Beleaguered children scream.
Yet, there she remains.
The volume finally fades,
As she assembles mannequins.
She travels far and wide,
While cleaning the fitting rooms.
She sits in warm, white sand,
While she re-racks cleats.
Her toes wiggle in the surf,
While she hangs up sports bras.
Marching through the misty trees,
Her fingers brush mossy bark.
The daydream cascades away,
As she reassembles a wrecked display.
On break, she hides in the car
Watching the plastic ballet.
It revolves through the door,
Speeding off with greedy fury.
Her hand hangs out the window,
And a small breeze tickles her fingertips.
Fresh grass wafts into her nose,
Sending her back home.
The front porch swing creaks,
And the sprinkler kicks on.
The dog barks in the distance,
As she reaches for the door.
The alarm rips her back,
Jolting her upright in her seat.
Her time is up,
And best not be late.
The lot shimmers, unchanged,
If not for the absence of carts.
She marches to the door,
Struggling with her anchors.
When the doors crack open,
The air screams across, frozen.
She slips back to invisibility,
As she picks up their leftovers.
The sun dips, at last,
And closing time comes.
Shooing out the stragglers,
They stash the day's haul.
Out go the lights,
And she's back in the lot.
Stars splatter the sky,
As she groans into the car.
Getting away, at long last,
She blasts off again.
Daydreaming and wishing,
That home will come back to her.
Stefan Adcock, 2019
Thanks for reading, and have a good day.
