Ten People You Meet Working at the Convenience Store

Convenience store workers receive general denigration by the public at large. It's not a hatred, nor really even a dislike. It's simple societal placement. No one wants to e considered at the same level as a convenience store worker. If your career path has you working at one, you tell yourself it is only a temporary stall on the way to eventual success, or more depressingly, the inevitable result of your failures earlier in your life. School children work at the convenience store. Immigrants work at the convenience store. Has been send also ranks work at the convenience store. And currently, so do I.

Working the tills all day, you get to see all kinds of shoppers. The co-operative has split these shoppers into their own designated descriptions. The weekly shopper, the newspaper collector, the person on their way home, and so on. I know because I have read the same newsletter that's been posted on the wall in the tiny excuse for a break room umpteen times. I disagree Witht the politically correct terms the shop uses. 

The Drunk - I hate you so much. You are the worst. You come in, stinking the place up, breathing smoke and liquor in my face. You find the most pathetic excuses to come into the shop. You once bought toothpicks, claiming you were hosting a dinner party. You made sure to buy your alcohol so that dinner party must have had a liquid dinner. I don't even care that much about your debilitating disease. I serve other alkys throughout the day, pouring their change into their shaking fingers. The difference is just how pathetic you are, jsut how determined you are to be the center of attention. Who drops their shop t the till, get half way through , and realise you want to buy another ten items a scattered throughout the shop? Who else does not know their PIN number? Who else screams at the attendant to take your contactless card becasue you don't know how it works, despite having been shown how to put a card against a EPOS? Who else looks bac a the line of people behind them, as they flail about, and laugh at their own failure? Man, I hate you. I find ways to not serve you. When I see you walk through the entrance, I hope I have a fifteen minute break available. I will look down at my till if you are the next customer in the queue. I will tell my current customer the receipt is slow, the card is taking its time. I will not use that enter button until one of my colleagues take the bullet. You are the worst.

The Kid - You rock up to the counter, with one or two sweets. You want a bag. You have the exact change. I love helping you work out wha the change is going to be. If you are white, you invariably do not know the answer. If you are black or Asian, you are usually correct. You always want a receipt, or never want a receipt. You are quite frankly, adorable. And then, one day, you become a teenager and you are loud and giggly. You are asking for cigarettes, rival and lighters. You are offensive when I ask you for I.D. , as if your scraggly excuse for mustache hair is enough. Dude, my mustache is straggly but at least I can back it up with a passport. You need to go home and study for your GCSEs. Hope that you do well enough in your exams that you do not come in with an application form. However, you will. As far as you are concerned, your parents and neighbouass have made it clear this store is the center, the hive, the apex of Life.

The Overwhelmed Parent - Hooray , you showed up at my till with a full trolley, AND a pram filled with groceries. The child is the original spawn of Satan, screaming, cackling with malicious glee as it runs around the store, grabbing Kinder eggs and throwing them into the chilled bottles section. It even gives you the Oushka Oushka look, mouth in an ancient ROmany curse, despite not being to form English words beyond 'I WANT THIS!", MUMMMMMMM" and of course, "No!" You poor bitch. You know every person in the shop is judging you but here's the thing. You are broken. The child has taken you into their corral, and destroyed your spirit. You only live for the day they will move out, or more likely, get arrested for setting a bus full of nuns on fire. Until then, as your shop comes to a merciful close, the screams and wails from your Daemonseed reverberating off the pot noodles, you whisper through cracked lips just what brand of cigarettes you need to make it through the day. It's probably Mayfair Smooth, isn't it?

The Overindulging Parent - You arrive at the till just like the previous parent. However, your child roams free. You read books that talk of letting your child explore their surroundings. You talk of letting them have their little adventures. Nice. Thanks. Their adventures include putting make up in the cold meats section, taking the KInder Eggs (Seriously, Kinder Egg company? Can you make your POS a little less child friendly? It's their version of an insect blue light.) and putting them in actual egg boxes. It even includes running around and kicking members of staff in their knees, which may or may not have had surgery. Meanwhile, you are so slow with your groceries. It's almost as if you are dragging out the time you are spending with a human being , and not just with your own lil' adventure. Well, don't. I didn't have sex with you with a cheap condom, and I sure as hell am not in love with you or your family. Hurry up, take your shopping, take your child and fuck right off.

The Foreigner - Shit may get racist here. You come into the store, often wearing a bicycle helmet or ceremonial clothing without any trace of irony. You walk through the crowds with the heavy tread of someone who is only just getting used to the overwhelming despair of living in British society. You buy fresh vegetables and meat. You don't go looking for bargain basement, products that are about to go out of date. You are better than your English counterparts. You dress better, you are more polite, you have better hair and your eyes have hope still flickering within them. I bag your food and watch you ride out on your scooter, again without a trace of irony. Internally, I beg and plead for you to take me with you to what I can only imagine is a hidden Tuscan Villa estate, resplendent with drum circles, amazing fruits, and bonfires on beaches. Watford has never looked as sexy.

The White Collar -  Entry level workers, surging from their call centre, holding their meal deals in their arms, chatting to their co-workers in the line, letting the rest of the world know, they are all successful office workers. Fuck you guys I did your gig. Your gig is awful. Don't pretend your life is better than mine. We are all pawns. Enjoy your Prawn Mayo Sandwiches as you sit at your desk, bordered by skinny walls designed to make you feel as isolated as possible. Sip your Fanta Zero (WHY!?) as you grimly realize you will never get that Team Leader position, and even if you do, that's it for you. Enjoy your egg slices, you Failed Man Walking.

The Blue Collar - Pain on your coveralls, hard hat at a jaunty angle, dirty , calloused hands. None of this makes up the fact you think being rude is the same as being working class honest. Turn all your words together, you talk about scores and ponies instead of actual money denominations. You are not a Cockney. You are not a Guy RItchie gangster. You are a man who probably went to Bushey Meads School. Grow up, learn glottal stops. Stop claiming to be that which you aren't. I do like it when you go through this whole rigmarole, then at the till you have a bottle of the Chenin Blanc, along with smoked salmon and bagels. Faker.

The Regular - You are great. You know what you want, you know where it is. You do not cause a fuss. If you catch my eye, you acknowledge me as a fellow human being. You might even ask how I am as well, which of course will blow my mind.  You let me know I am doing a good job, or even that I am the best part of your day. The conversations we have will last for months, four or five sentences of dialogue a day. It's lovely. You're lovely. You are the breaths of fresh air I need to suck down to survive the olluted dross that is the rest of the shopping populace. You make my day. Don't you dare change. 

A Very Public Apology For being Myself

So, look, here's the thing. You know me. You know a version of me. Everyone has a version of me in their group of social interaction, be it in  the workplace or in the classroom or in your actual free time. I am that guy people say is the 'the life of the party' while raising their eyebrows. Possibly in a manner suggesting said title is really the whole joke.

I never thought it was a joke, being a popular , enjoyed person. I took it in a deadly serious manner. I hate anyone not liking me. For mem that is a throwback to preteen and teen me, a shy, uncomfortable character that slunk in the shadows. I would throttle that version of me if I could, stomp on his head until I heard his teeth chip and break. I would set him on fire. I push myself on so many ocassions to talk to strangers, to listen to others talk about things that are not interesting or listen to genuinely unpleasant or worse, boring people. I needed their approval so much I gave mine up completely. Love me, my persona screams, if only because of how good a job I am presenting of loving you.

And that situation developed. People threw out terms like 'King' or Mayor' of Daegu. Honorifics which are truly horrific. And I lapped it up. I pretended to not notice the half smirks guileful people would throw at each other. I valued the love too much. I would wave a strangers when they waved at me, forgetting that we had already met previously and in their minds at least, I was  an acquaintance, a friend. I played a  part to perfection.

So now I find myself seeing my actions. And I loathe myself. I am stuck with empty vessels as acquaintance, unable to distinguish the people who are truly my friends and who is just playing along wiht the game started in my head and now played by everyone so much better. My confidence is paper thin, my skin less so. My ego is stretched wide like a balloon and needs only one acute observation to pop me into nothing. My every action is now scrutinised by my id , my super ego, my fake ego and by a committee of sub egos who all have a turn clamouring for attention.

And now I have so many ways t express myself to my new found lifelong friends. Hello, Facebook. Hello, Blogger. Sometimes they say hello back. I now have spent so much time on my friends. I have invested in them.; Surely it is time for them to invest in me. Surely they will all want to know about my day. Careful though, I better make it funny. People like my posts. I cream myself at the pleasure of seeing likes on a post increase over time. Of being witty and it being recognised. Not for the elctronic media the world of half smirks and rolling eyes. Here, it can be taken anyway I desire. Here, I am an urbane G-d.

And then I hurt myself. And it was a while ago. And I am down about it. I don't really feel like making a joke anymore. I feel lke being honest about my feelings. I feel like saying I feel awful, that my knee is punding acid into my foot. That I cannot stand up and i am afraid I will never do it properly again. That I may not run or jump or climb a tree again. These fears cloud my mind and blur my vision with tears of irreparable damage in potentia.

And I write these things not because I want the likes anymore but because I want to be heard. Because I want to be respected. because I want to be liked. Suddenly it is not the substance of the matetr but the matter which created the substance that needs appreciation. Because honestly right now, I feel no appreciation.

And no one cares. Not really. Not in the all consuming way I want them to care. Becasue that's insane. No one can care for you like a lovesick perfectly obedient, individual, clever, carefree, wise, sagacious, witty, fun way golem. They can send you commiserations but they re long distanced, weak by the time of arrival at your soul. They can visit you but you know they will go away again. You know it and they know it. It is part of the tacit arrangement.

All my friends have failed my ideal. And that is because my ideal is fractured, through decades of feverish study as to what is necessary to be popular, to being wanted. To having that transform into a ghoulish need to impress but never realizing the other half of the equation. To be impressive. And so, the reality comes to pass that I reach out to my friends in a way they find cloying, irritating, or worse, boring.

My apology is this. I am sorry for failing my friends in the hour of my greatest need. I shall, from here on in, not tell you a single thing about my day being terrible until it is something you ask for. I will not talk about things that upset me in my life. I shall not venture opinion on source material until it is asked for. I shall not ask for help in any way physical, mental, spiritual or emotional because it is clear you would not ask the same of me, even though I would have given it gladly. By repressing myself, maybe I can stop the microIDs, control my personality and make it a human being once more. Maybe I can find out what I want to listen to, to care about, to appreciated. And then I can gain the respect I deserve.



See, old me would have thrown a question at the end right here saying something like, Does any of this make any sense? I think new me would ask the same question.



Does any of this make sense?