| Fry�s: Food and Drug
Every now and then I wake up screaming in the middle of the night. Actually, I don�t, which is pretty hard to believe considering what I�ve been through. Some kids have bad experiences at summer camp; others, at school. Me? I had a year in a grocery store from Hell. This is my story. April 5th, 2004. I was giggling like a little girl at a sleepover. Of course, I had a good reason � it was my sixteenth birthday and I had just been hired at Fry�s grocery store as a bagger. After sixteen hours of learning how to put stuff in bags and take abuse from random people, I was finally ready to make some money. My first day was great � nice, cool store, all kinds of friendly and smiling people, and wonderful ambient beepings. Eventually, I�d learn to see the demons behind the smiles, the beepings of registers would fade like ghosts in my memory, and I�d grow to despise with all my heart the smell of plastic and lettuce. But not yet. Phyllis was the manager then, she was nice and honest. My supervisor was Victor, he just took smoke breaks and let you do whatever you want. So, despite the fact that I was wearing a white oxford shirt tucked into short tan shorts, I was happy. The next six months changed my life. Managers came and went, and my duties became more humiliating. Suddenly, I was cleaning putrid messes left and right, and gathering carts off the lot. The vicious July sun tore away at my flesh as I trudged along the broiling asphalt that reflected the heat into my face, singeing my eyebrows. I would grasp the white-hot handles of a cart, and choke on the fumes of my hands fusing with the metal. After fifteen minutes, I could no longer see in color, and still I harvested these blazing-hot convenience devices from that No-Man�s-Land. The summer heat was like lava being poured all over my skin. Night would come like the whisper of an angel. Customers kept coming, kept leaving the carts in the lot, perpetuating my futile duty to push my metaphoric rock up my metaphoric mountain. And as the stars would come out of the velvety darkness to comfort me, I would sink to my knees and curse my own name tag! O, Starlight, thou attempteth to give my hungry heart hope, yea, thou can only shine they wretched light on more carts. The metal glistened like the howl of a hyena, mocking me. Eventually, I�d peel the steaming vest from my back, and I�d crawl into the ice cream freezer, crying between the Rocky Road and the Sugar-Free French Vanilla, until I could see in color again and my blackened palms stopped smoldering. Not everyone could retain their sanity in such a malicious environment; then again, not everyone wanted to. As time rolled on like an old woman driving fifteen miles under the speed limit, I hung out more and more with a man named Mark. Endless years of being a Fry�s Greeter can kill a man � I�ve seen it. But Mark protected himself by sinking into a delicious insanity, like a sweet buffer between his mind and his job. And, bless his heart, he would often extend his craziness into my life as well. He�d warn me about goblins in the parking lot, hold (fantastically twisted) history lectures by the cauliflower, and chase �Partanimal,� a creature that is �half man, half dog, and half mad dog.� Partanimal almost stole Mark�s sandwich once. Mark freaked. Do the words �utter, uncontrollable pandemonium� mean anything to you? There was also Donald. Donald was about a hundred and fifteen years old, and looked like a wrinkly turtle. He always smiled and was more than willing to crack jokes and anything. Everyone loved him, and so when he was fired for refusing to bow down to an abusive manager�s command, it was a slap in the face. I had already made enough money to buy a (well-) used car, and now I needed to make my escape � Thanksgiving was approaching, and I noticed veteran employees stocking up on riot shields and painkillers. How does one leave an evil, corporate giant and still wind up with enough gas money for the holidays? I went crazy searching for another job. I applied at a place called Wild Noodles one night (that waitress totally digged me: it was easy.) A week later, I learned that several employees there were just convicted as rapists. Sorry, waitress, you�re on your own. And so, without another job, Thanksgiving crashed into us like a disgruntled schoolyard bully with brass knuckles. There were four accidents in the parking lots, epic swordfights for carts, and endless waves of psychotic consumers screaming criticisms at the top of their lungs. They used up all the oxygen in the store, and our lips turned an unhealthy shade of blue with the very effort of staying alive. Eight hours later, as a brown smoke sadly curled away from the bloodstained, charred wreckage, I realized that I had to endure six more months before I can get a promotion to a better place. Among the desolate, wailing employees picking through the carnage, I tightened my apron and set my jaw. Christmas was only a month away. With Mark�s loud, arm-flailing antics rising about the din of beeping registers and rustling plastic bags, we prepared for the holiday. I received a gold star on my nametag for hard work, and took a day off. When I returned, I returned to the North Pole. The store had been decorated in the spirit of Christmas with painstaking detail, but... where was Hannukah? I immediately ran to the aisle housing spare decorations, and initiated Phase One of my retaliation. Right there, between aisles nine and ten, I built a Hannukah display. The cashiers cheered me on, and the assistant manager loved it. He was a very cool manager, that guy. Yet, my creation met its demise at the hands of an old lady who rammed into it with an electric cart. Hit-and-run... my display never had a chance. I don't give up easily. I rebuilt it, and improved it! Again my innocent little rebellion drew light applause and cheers from the other employees. Strange, the managers never stepped in to stop me. Where were they? The sky was cloudy with mystery when I clocked out. When I returned the next day, lighting was ripping holes in the sky. My display had been cleaned up and replaced with the largest Christmas tree I had ever seen in my life! With a howl of rage, I spent two hours constructing a Hannukah shrine -- lights, baloons, beads, streamers, fake snow, sparkles, menorahs, dreidles, chocolate coins, latkes, and Adam Sandler. Still happily operating without managers, we proceeded to celebrate as we worked. It rained softly, and for a minute there I actually felt rather cozy. Suddenly, there was a flash followed by the angriest thunder I have ever heard. In the following silence, we heard the front doors open like the gates of Hell. Squeeeeeaaak. We heard slow, deliberate footsteps marching to the manager's office. A woman's voice I didn't recognize called out over the speaker, "Brian, to the front. Brian, to the front." The menorahs flickered. A dozen pairs of eyes followed me to the front. She was short, middle-aged, and chubby. She had a smile that was like the rain outside: cold, wet, and always pouring down on you. Some cashiers started crying. Mark whimpered "She's back...." Have you ever been hit in the face with a tire iron? Well, she seemed nice, but every time she opened her mouth, people cringed as if that heavy car-maintenance tool was flying towards their heads. I was ordered to dismantle my Hannukapalooza and dust every surface in the store. Christmas came, and the new managers established their domain. Roberta was the name of the demon that ordered the destruction of my shrine, and we spent the latter half of December trying to keep away from her.The second you started bending a rule, or started relaxing a muscle, she'd come. The lights would flicker, and there'd be a screeching sound, like a pterodactyl, and she'd swoop down from the ceiling with her black, leathery wings fluttering. She'd suck all the joy out of your soul through a bendy straw, and then she would open her blasphemous mouth and begin spewing out pure, concentrated stupidity. I got a ten dollar bonus and a gold star for Christmas. We workers united against our enemy, The Bert, and all I had to do was survive until April, when I can apply for promotion to cashier -- three times the pay, easier work, and better treatment. Dun dun dun.... I made it to April, somehow. I knew every nook and cranny of the store, and how to conduct myself in order to survive. I spoke with Kim, the new store manager, about my possible promotion. Despite my politeness, professionalism, and qualifications, she snarled and shot me down like a WWII plane getting hit with red-hot flak. She told me that she wouldn't promote me because I was in school. (Of course, I could make ten bucks an hour if I quit school.) Realizing that this was a place where intelligence was not valued, I returned to my work, wondering how much longer I could stand it for. The answer came to me towards the end of the month in the form of the new dress code. According to the Big Cheese at Fry's HQ, summer begins May 1st. We must wear pants until then. In 100-degree heat. Since I didn't want to have a heatstroke in the middle of the parking lot, I wore shorts. Carlos, a front-end manager, took me aside and said something along the lines of "you are stupider than the world's dumbest person for wearing shorts. Change, worm." "But, My Lord Carlos, why is it a crime to have a healthy work environment?" "Because I'm the manager and I say so. Plus, Roberta will eat your soul if you don't follow our ridiculously evil rules." Then he spied the soul patch. The only facial hair allowed under the new dress code. An inch of hair between the bottom lip and chin. His eye twitched. With an unearthly strength, he lifted me off the ground by my neck, and roared into my face, "BEARD!" Wiping the spit from my eyes, I started to protest, but in the end, I was sent home to shave my face smoother than a Barbie Doll's thigh. I stayed inside for the rest of the day, even when I was supposed to do carts. Nobody recognized me. Karen, the old, chain-smoking greeter lady sneered at me, and rapsed in a voice that had sucked down too many cigarettes, "Young people suck." I henceforth hated shaving. A few days later, I couldn't take it anymore. Some girls were messing with my carts in the parking lot, teasing me, and they weren't even hot. So, I quit, screaming it at the top of my lungs into Carlos' face, making sure copious amounts of saliva flew at him. The customers cheered for me. When I finished screaming, I laughed and handed my two-weeks notice. Yay! In my final hours, I prepared my proteg�, Eric Reese, for what he was up against. In need of money, he had joined Fry's, too. On May 24th, at 10:00 PM, I was released from my bondage to Fry's. A warm glow came to my face as a chorus of angels began singing Mozart's Sonata in A Major. It was like the thick, rusted chains of corporate regulations had shattered, and I sucked in the sweet air of freedom as I rubbed my wrists, which were raw from the shackles. After some tearful goodbyes, I stepped out into the night. The moon, full and silver, lit my way as I drove home. I celebrated my exodus with an ice-cold glass of Horchata, and slept until the golden sun rose above the violet mountains, dribbling them with honey-colored sunlight. |