Mighty Mango #7
He should never have been there in the first place; there, behind the check-out counter, ringing up "NOW! That's What I Call Music 27" for a couple of fat, giggling 15-year-olds. He didn't even look at the merchandise. The "merch." Sweep it over the lasers, hear the beep, read the total. Credit card swiped; press button; give receipt to sign. Next in line, please.
It was the most boring, frustrating job Rick had ever, ever done. He woke up every morning dreading it. He was a 43-year-old man, for FUCK'S SAKE. And he was working with people half his age. He was working for a little prick half his age.
"Rick!"
And there he was. Mike. Mike, the 22-year-old manager. Mike, the kid with the bright future in Wal-Mart management. Mike, Mike. Mike. Rick hated Mike more than he hated almost anyone, and it wasn't even the kid's fault. He was pretty nice most of the time. But God. The idea. The idea that a 22-year-old kid could tell him what to do made his blood boil.
Rick lived in rural Virginia, and for most of his life had worked at a car factory, one of the few left in the town. But before you think this is a sad story about outsourcing, take heart. Rick's factory was still exactly where it always has been, producing cars. There are no overseas demons stealing American jobs in this story.
"Yeah, Mike, what's up?" said Rick.
"Can you go help unload one of the trucks? We're a little backed up, and I figured..."
Rick cut him off. "Sure." Anything to get away from the goddamned checkout laser. He was a little insulted, of course. Hey, you're a big brute. You used to work in a factory. Why don't you go move around something heavy? But whatever. There was no point complaining.
Rick's job used to be to weld in the seatbelts, a job he took great pride in. He really did. He knew that if he didn't do his job well every time, every weld, someone like him, some guy trying to raise his family somewhere, would die in a crash. Would they ever trace it back to Rick? No. But he'd knew. So he welded, carefully, every time.
"Hey Rick." It was Tommy, one of the other guys whose job was to move heavy stuff around. Also deli. Heavy stuff and deli.
"Tommy. What d'we got? Rice? Cartons of light bulbs?"
"Fertilizer!"
"Ah, shit." Mild chuckle.
He got fired 'cause he fell asleep. At the line. He fell asleep and a bunch of seatbelts didn't get welded in, and they had to stop the line and blah blah. Millions of dollars. Gone. Talked to the union boss; nothing they could do, he said. Nothing they could do.
He fell asleep on the line 'cause he was up all night the night before. And he was up all night the night before 'cause his boy had been in a car accident. He should have said something; gotten the day off work. But he didn't. Too proud. Besides, they needed the money for hospital bills. Rick was not a literary scholar, but he was pretty sure that qualified as ironic.
Rick's son, Sam, never really recovered. He still had to walk with a cane and probably always would. That meant no football team, and no football scholarship. But a funny thing happened. It turned out that Sam had a brain on his shoulders, not too shabby. He'd neglected it, ignored it his whole life because he was a fast runner and a good catcher. But lately his grades had been great.
"So, Sam's off to college soon, yeah?"
"Yeah," said Rick.
University of Virginia. Hell of a thing. Rick had never been to college; probably why he was stuck doing this shitty job. Never even applied. It just wasn't what boys his age did when they came from families like his. But even in-state tuition was a lot of money and he didn't really understand how college loans worked. Putting his son through college would be a tough job; a man's job. But Rick was going to do it. It never really occurred to him not to.
It took an hour, but Rick and Tommy finished up. The fertilizer went to the garden department, and Rick went back to scanning merch at check-out, and Tommy went back to the deli to make sandwiches. If anyone thought it was weird that a guy should unload cow shit and then make sandwiches, they didn't say anything.
At the end of his shift, Rick got ready to head home.
"Rick!"
Mike.
"Think you could stay another hour tonight? We're a little shorthanded." Unsaid, of course, was that there'd be no extra pay. Wal-mart didn't pay overtime. You stayed, but off the clock. If you didn't...
"Yeah. I'll hang around."
Credit card swiped. Push a button. Sign here. Seeya tomorrow!
It was the most boring, frustrating job Rick had ever, ever done. He woke up every morning dreading it. He was a 43-year-old man, for FUCK'S SAKE. And he was working with people half his age. He was working for a little prick half his age.
"Rick!"
And there he was. Mike. Mike, the 22-year-old manager. Mike, the kid with the bright future in Wal-Mart management. Mike, Mike. Mike. Rick hated Mike more than he hated almost anyone, and it wasn't even the kid's fault. He was pretty nice most of the time. But God. The idea. The idea that a 22-year-old kid could tell him what to do made his blood boil.
Rick lived in rural Virginia, and for most of his life had worked at a car factory, one of the few left in the town. But before you think this is a sad story about outsourcing, take heart. Rick's factory was still exactly where it always has been, producing cars. There are no overseas demons stealing American jobs in this story.
"Yeah, Mike, what's up?" said Rick.
"Can you go help unload one of the trucks? We're a little backed up, and I figured..."
Rick cut him off. "Sure." Anything to get away from the goddamned checkout laser. He was a little insulted, of course. Hey, you're a big brute. You used to work in a factory. Why don't you go move around something heavy? But whatever. There was no point complaining.
Rick's job used to be to weld in the seatbelts, a job he took great pride in. He really did. He knew that if he didn't do his job well every time, every weld, someone like him, some guy trying to raise his family somewhere, would die in a crash. Would they ever trace it back to Rick? No. But he'd knew. So he welded, carefully, every time.
"Hey Rick." It was Tommy, one of the other guys whose job was to move heavy stuff around. Also deli. Heavy stuff and deli.
"Tommy. What d'we got? Rice? Cartons of light bulbs?"
"Fertilizer!"
"Ah, shit." Mild chuckle.
He got fired 'cause he fell asleep. At the line. He fell asleep and a bunch of seatbelts didn't get welded in, and they had to stop the line and blah blah. Millions of dollars. Gone. Talked to the union boss; nothing they could do, he said. Nothing they could do.
He fell asleep on the line 'cause he was up all night the night before. And he was up all night the night before 'cause his boy had been in a car accident. He should have said something; gotten the day off work. But he didn't. Too proud. Besides, they needed the money for hospital bills. Rick was not a literary scholar, but he was pretty sure that qualified as ironic.
Rick's son, Sam, never really recovered. He still had to walk with a cane and probably always would. That meant no football team, and no football scholarship. But a funny thing happened. It turned out that Sam had a brain on his shoulders, not too shabby. He'd neglected it, ignored it his whole life because he was a fast runner and a good catcher. But lately his grades had been great.
"So, Sam's off to college soon, yeah?"
"Yeah," said Rick.
University of Virginia. Hell of a thing. Rick had never been to college; probably why he was stuck doing this shitty job. Never even applied. It just wasn't what boys his age did when they came from families like his. But even in-state tuition was a lot of money and he didn't really understand how college loans worked. Putting his son through college would be a tough job; a man's job. But Rick was going to do it. It never really occurred to him not to.
It took an hour, but Rick and Tommy finished up. The fertilizer went to the garden department, and Rick went back to scanning merch at check-out, and Tommy went back to the deli to make sandwiches. If anyone thought it was weird that a guy should unload cow shit and then make sandwiches, they didn't say anything.
At the end of his shift, Rick got ready to head home.
"Rick!"
Mike.
"Think you could stay another hour tonight? We're a little shorthanded." Unsaid, of course, was that there'd be no extra pay. Wal-mart didn't pay overtime. You stayed, but off the clock. If you didn't...
"Yeah. I'll hang around."
Credit card swiped. Push a button. Sign here. Seeya tomorrow!
posted by Anonymous at 6:36 PM
1 Comments:
Wow, way to paint a picture with this one, good job! :-)
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