Why Are You Here, Again?

Why Are You Here, Again?

 If I wrote a manual pertaining to my job, it would go something like this: Hold the shirt up by the shoulders. With a combination of your index and middle fingers, fold the creases on the sides of the shirt back, making sure the sleeves don’t poke out. Lay the shirt forward and fold the crease along the base. Finally, connect the shoulders of the shirt with the base. Congratulations! You just folded a shirt according to retail standards, a shirt worthy of being placed amongst merchandise ready and prime for sale. Now, repeat a few hundred more times. Maybe more, depending on how well behaved the customers are. You may feel a sudden ping of anger at the customer beside you, that savage turning your perfectly folded display into a messy, unorganized mountain of sadness. Maybe one of their kids decides to kick a soccer ball into the nice stack of jeans you just folded and sized. But don’t worry; your shift will be over soon. Why are you here, again?

            Nine minutes until close, and a customer asks me for help.

            “Could you get the shirt off of that mannequin for me?”

            I fumble with the plastic woman for several minutes, dislodging her arms, head, and torso until the shirt wiggles free.

            The customer looks at the shirt and raises her brow. “Oh, this is a medium? I wanted a large.” She hands me the shirt and walks away. Closing time was seven minutes ago.

            I begin locking the doors and cleaning the front counters when I overhear a conversation between the cashier and the customer who has overstayed her welcome. The customer thoroughly cusses her out due to the lack of large green shirts the store has in stock. Because she is obligated to, the cashier gives her name to the customer. The customer leaves with a final “bullshit!” and slams the door behind her. I’m quick to lock it. The next day, the cashier gets reported.

            Why are you here, again? I ask myself.

I redress the mannequin I disrobed the night before. I lock both her arms in place and slip an undershirt and a casual button-up shirt onto her torso. I take her head and lock it into place on top of the torso. She looks me in the eye with a plastic smile (she smiles even while decapitated) as do the rest of the mannequins beside her. There are mannequins of every color and every gender and every age.  There’s even a dog. They all sport the hottest trends of the season, adorned with featured items and jeans on sale for 25% off. We call the female mannequins Jenny and the male ones Mike. During training, my manager told me that the mannequins—and all sales goals and strategies—cater towards the “average” customer (aka. The Mikes and Jennies of the world).

            My manager might as well have just said, “Make Jenny feel welcome. Cater to Mike’s needs. They’re busy and have children. They have no time to shop. Get them in and out of the store with as much merchandise as quickly as possible. This is your job. They’re too busy with their own.”

            No one pays the mannequins any attention. Customers are far too busy for such things, except for the occasional toddler who gets curious and pets the dog or a customer who only wants the shirt off their backs. Jenny and Mike are merely means to an end—assembled, stripped, sales made. Why am I here, again?

Do what you love, is a phrase often heard. It seems that the human race had this concept figured out way before it became truly relevant in the modern era. Confucius even knew this. To do work that one hated was to go against the universe; that is, wasting energy on a fruitless endeavor was considered shameful. Inversely, to do what one loves is keeping balance within the flow of the cosmos, projecting positive, creative energy towards the heavens. Such a way of life was rewarding and spiritually beneficial. This is what I’d like to believe, if it weren’t for this lady yelling in my face. The credit card terminal is broken. I tell her I’ll print a receipt out for her to sign. However, I notice an error; I accidentally charged her for two things. I tell her I’ll fix it right away, but this does little to calm the berserk soccer mom. I hand her the pen, and she signs the corrected receipt.

            “At least something works here.” She grabs the bag from my hand and storms out of the door.

            I abandon my duties on the spot, grab the dog mannequin, and chase after the woman. She doesn’t notice. Now’s my chance to strike. I smash her on the back of the head with the smiling plastic collie and loose a victory roar for all to hear in the parking lot. This is how it went in my head, anyway. I call for the next person in line. I scan their items, and the rapid beeps of each item being scanned slowly sends me back into my own mind. I was talking about Confucius or something, right? Why am I here again?

Why am I here, again? I would like to think that there’s another way. Some way out of this cycle. Get a job, graduate high school, get an internship, graduate college, get a “real” job, support yourself, get married, have kids, support your family, be trapped. I’m not so sure. While I fold shirt after shirt after shirt, I sometimes catch myself daydreaming of quitting my job. Go out. Live on a whim. Go wherever fate takes me. Hell, maybe backpack through Europe or climb a mountain or some other kind of self-discovery cliché. But I’m scared. Will I be able to find another job? What if I’m not successful? Fear blocks us from everything we could ever possibly want in the world—but I don’t think I can conquer it. I don’t think anyone fully can. Doubt and fear will always be present, but why? What are we (what am I) so afraid of? What is the driving force that prevents people from quitting their jobs and living? Money. Safety. Security. Comfort. I stand in the middle of the threshold between the door and the mannequins. Sunlight leaks through the glass doors. Jenny and Mike stand on the other side of me, accumulating dust. The exit is there.

-Your Obsessive Chronicler,

Ryan