The Trials of a Retail Drone

 Working retail sucks.

This is common knowledge, but it bears repeating. Working retail sucks.

It is sadly necessary for our master the Great Economy to survive, nay thrive. It involves plastering a smile on your face and pretending to care about random strangers and their shopping needs. You work horrible hours for low pay and no benefits. The customer is always right, even when they are most definitely WRONG.

I work retail. At least for the time being; as I type I am formulating an escape plan. Perhaps I could dig a tunnel or steal one of the guards uniforms and just walk out of the front gate. Err, door. My current prison cell is the back room of a somewhat prominent retail chain. Back there, I can thankfully avoid most of the worst aspects of retail (customers, cashiering, and customers). Of course, I have my own brand of troubles back there.

My official title is processor. My fellow drones and myself unload truckloads of merchandise, unbox them, label them when required, and set them up to be shelved by other drones.

Over all, it's not *too* horrendous. But this week has spawned a whole new level of suck in the form of back stock.

Apparently the week I was away, someone higher up the chain ( I have my suspicions as to who this idiot is, but won't say it in case one of the soldier drones happens to know how to read) had the absolutely moronic idea to delay working on the bulk (that's furniture and mirrors...you know, big, cumbersome, and bulky) until a few of my fellow drones were all on vacation. With so few people it was allowed to stack up. Add into it a few more shipments comprised of mostly bulk, and you have our current catastrophe.

The entire back room is full, packed nearly to the ceiling with bulk. Dangerously packed, I might add; one must walk on eggshells while moving through the small, tight corridors between the precariously stacked boxes, lest an avalanche occur, injuring or killing us all.

Naturally, this has made my work obligations go from merely vexing to downright uncomfortable; I've experienced a kind of claustrophobia while working under these conditions; my temper is more easily triggered, breathing is more difficult, and I'm acutely paranoid about something falling on me. There have been some near-misses in the two days I've been back. Simply put, I'm constantly on the verge of having a panic attack.

And I'm not the only one.

And of course, our loving overseers haven't set foot in the back room one time to lend a hand. I hear that they come in after we leave, in the evenings to work on the problem, but I've seen little evidence of it, considering the fact that the mess grows worse each day.


Now, I know what you're thinking, "Oh look, Darren complaining about work. What a surprise." And you'd be right. But my bitching serves a purpose besides entertaining anyone bored enough to actually read this blog. It also allows me to think "out loud." Griping is the natural right of all lowly worker drones, in all fields of life. So, you know, don't hate.

Regardless, I've decided to use this horrible situation to my advantage. It will serve as fuel for my disdain for my current not-career, and act as a constant reminder that I need to get a better job. NOW.

So I think I'll got fill out an application of seven. Peace out, bitches.