Smile

Opening a box, one of my bosses, the one who only ever talks to me to tell me what to do or that I'm doing something wrong, he comes up next to me. I'm stocking the shelf, thump, thump, thump, and his box rips open, and the contents move from box to shelf as if there was a poltergeist in the store. They fly into place. I can't even see his hands. Thump, thump, thump, goes my cans, while he collects his now empty box and leaves.

Our job seems to be about stocking shelves, but it really isn't. If they wanted the shelves stocked, they'd hire twice as many people and have them work half as many hours to get everything shelved in half the time so that customers can buy them, but that isn't what they want. What they want is people in uniform working in the alleys. That's why we stock the shelves in the afternoon and face the product at night. So that we'll be in the alleys. Because my whole job is about getting food to customers. I stock the shelves so that the product is there to be bought, I face the product so that customers can find what they are looking for, and I'm in the alleys eight hours a day, so that when they can't find it, they can ask me where it is.

Most every customer who asks for help has a smile on their face. After getting your attention, they almost always apologize for interrupting you with what you're doing, as if your job wasn't explicitly to help them. And after you help them find what they're looking for, there's usually more that one thanks thrown your way.

Today, looking at my forearms and hands, there's little nicks and cuts, little lines of red, or dead white skin that's hanging off, but no blood. My fingers no longer bleed at work.