I was walking through one of those discount department stores when I noticed that William Finnegan’s book, “Barbarian Days,” was on sale. A crowd had gathered to grab copies of the masterpiece while I drowned in Finnegan’s wake and jogged off in another direction.
I was not there to shop but to report for work, which, for a few days, consisted of offering snacks to strangers.
It started after three days of being slumped on the living room couch in my pajamas, chips and dip at the ready, channel changer in hand, alternating between Dobbie Gillis reruns and The Price is Right. Noting that I was looking pathetic even by my own unemployed standards, my usually patient wife, Tracy, had had enough.
“You need to do something, anything,” she snapped. “What, like get a job?” I countered. “Yes, that would be nice.”
Believing that nobody would want to hire a freelance writer of surf stories, I applied to the aforementioned department store, and, to my surprise, was called in for an interview. A week later, I was there, company hat, hair net, beard net, and apron on, reporting for duty.
The job of handing out candy to strangers might appear easy, but a lot of prep work is required. Hands are washed for 20 seconds with soap and warm water, disposable gloves are put on, the cart is checked to ensure all necessary items are on board, and the cart is rolled out to the display site.
Once signs are secured to the cart, barking begins in order to entice customers to try free samples of organic lemonade, Dubai chocolate ice cream, grilled cheese sandwiches, strawberry shortcake, various types of ice cream, or assorted bits of candy, which, because of my belief in the evils of high sugar foods, caused me great conflict.
I was especially troubled when plump adolescents or toothless adults approached and took me off on my offer. That, and being reprimanded for being late by someone barely older than my oldest grandson, made the job increasingly uncomfortable.
As I approached the conclusion of week one, I noted an increase in book sales corresponding with an increase in soreness in feet, calves and lumbar vertebrae. I nonetheless decided to stay on. My resolve ended when I realized I had lost several book orders because my attention had been diverted elsewhere. Since the loss of book revenue was roughly equal to my weekly pay, I had no choice but to retire.
You would have thought I would be happy walking off those ankle-busting concrete floors for the last time, but I was not. I looked at those people, heroically smiling as they did the necessary work of stacking produce, sweeping floors, greeting customers and checking and bagging all sorts of items, with renewed admiration.
While I sat in my pajamas, writing stories about the wonders of ocean life, they pressed their uniforms, drove to work, and stood at their stations, waiting for the moment they could drive home and melt into the couch, a place that had been my workstation all day.
Don’t get me wrong; I work hard and find that my work, while rewarding, is unnecessary. I rearrange the dictionary while they bring items needed for life itself to us. So, if you ever hear me complain about my job, do me a favor — tell me to shut up or get a real job.
