This is something I wrote for a class I'm taking.
If there was a response to my outburst, I didn't hear it. The only thing I could hear or focus on was the rapid building pressure, the emotion that roared inside my head, the numbness inside my fingers and toes, inside my chest, as if I could feel my body clamp down and try to keep me from exploding all over the small room. It wasn't working. Something was breaking in me, the pressure too much to hold back any longer. The fight to keep tears corralled behind closed lids to spilled over and roll down my cheeks. Pushed too far, and now I had gone crazy.
Society doesn't think much of people like me, low-wage workers, mothers, fathers, those of us who might have made a wrong turn or misjudged a step a time or two, us unskilled workers. Those of us who didn’t start with a leg up or even a lot of choices to begin with. Those of us who stock shelves, run registers, bring the food to your table, make overpriced coffee taste nothing like coffee or fulfill your online orders. We are all too often treated not like human beings, but cogs in a machine where our wants and needs don't matter. Where we don’t matter. Treated as if we deserve to struggle, to do without, abused and used because we didn’t make better choices, we weren’t born into different families didn’t try harder.
Society doesn’t take into consideration the brutality of low wage work. The constant stress, worry, of an unstable, unreliable, unrelenting job day in and day out with no promise of reward or finish line (Guendelsberger 10). A corporation that changes the rules as often as they change their CEO’s, to the benefit of its appearance rather than the toll of its employees. Or the manager who doesn’t pitch in when the work is in the weeds. Coworkers who look for a simple way out or customers who use you as a punching bag. Low wage work is “dehumanizing” (Guendelsberger 10) degrading and relentless.
I’d worked for Wally-World for almost four years when management approached me about a job. A supervisory position for the unloaders, someone to run the crew of maybe ten to fifteen people who unloaded the eighteen-wheeler trailer trucks and sorting merch for both the grocery side of the superstore and the G. M (general merchandise).
“You should apply for the position, Jennifer,” Larry, a support manager I had taken a liking to since he first appeared less than a year ago. We had a lot in common, as we both seemed to share that, “I’m not taking any more shit from you” vibe about us. When he worked, he often stopped by wherever department I was in to shoot the shit, but that night he had something different on his mind.
“I don’t know, I have a low tolerance for people, and even less for their bullshit,” I had told him between opening and breaking down cardboard boxes.
“Why do you think they always put you one the heaviest freight, Jennifer? Because you go in there and get the job done without having to have someone looking over your shoulder all the time. That is the kind of person this job needs. I think you will get the hang of the people in no time.”
And right there was my first mistake. I let myself be flattered by compliments, sucked into that game of sweet talk, none of which helps me pay my bills. One of my many flaws has always been looking for the approval of others, and when that approval comes with a side of encouragement, I let myself believe that other people know me better than I know myself. And what follows is the inevitable ignoring of that little voice in my head saying, “this is a bad idea.”
I took this news home and told anyone who would listen that there was a promotion available, and I was thinking of applying for it. I wanted advice, I wanted thoughtfulness, I wanted praise for my hard work. I wanted someone to tell me that I could do this job, but there was no one who could tell me what I wanted to hear. I had to find out on my own. I also talked to the higher ups, including the store manager, Daryl who would oversee the new spots. A fact that only added to the jobs appeal. I had worked for Daryl on the overnight shift, and I had liked him. He was easy to talk to, nice, and always made the crew under him feel like they were all working toward the same goal, unlike other managers I had worked for when they feel as if their crew should shutter at the sound of their voice.
The interview was conducted by Daryl, which he explained to me in detail what the job consisted of and what my responsibilities were, there was even talk about how my application bumped other applicants down a notch. A nugget that again stroked a very neglected part of my ego and started to add strength to my confidence. It felt good. And I was determined to get this job right. It didn’t take long for word to come back on my favor, a first for everything.
For about a minute and a half I was, dare I say, proud of myself. These people I had been working for, with had thought well enough of me and the job I had been doing to put me in charge of a bigger job. They didn’t think of me as trouble or a liar or untrustworthy, or a screwup. They trusted me to get the job done. I had earned it.
Hold onto something because here comes my second mistake.
I took the job as Cap Team Supervisor with the understanding of how things were going to run and who would be running them. I had asked all the questions and gotten all the answers, these were major factors in the decision of taking the job. But as always, nothing could be trusted, or counted on. From the start I had felt overwhelmed, unsupported, and left out there to survive on my own. Depending on what manager was on duty was the difference in answers or instructions. While one team of management might tell us to focus on the sort of the truck, the other on another day would tell us we needed to get the departments on the floor worked. Work unfinished by other shifts, departments, or just other employees often fell to the Cap Team to clean up or finish. Overstock that should have been binned on shelves in the back were left on carts we needed to sort incoming freight. Wrapped pallets of overstock taken down off a high stack to fetch one item would be left where it sat on the dancefloor.
Maybe it was Wally World Inc. or the store manager, Bret, or maybe it was Daryl himself, but one of them reached down and grabbed the edge of my metaphorical rug and yanked. Before I knew it, I was ass over elbows.
In a quick succession of moves, the job I had signed up for evaporated. The man in charge moved to another shift. Replaced by a mouthy little shit that loved the sound of his own voice more than any one of those plastic dolls on one of those “Real Housewives” shows. He thought a lot of himself, and I could feel it roll off him even before he opened his mouth. I had been in one of the outer offices complaining about one thing or another and looking for suggestions or resolutions to the problems that seemed to be piling up around me.
“I have big plans on how we can change this system and make it better, more efficient and less waste of time,” Danny had said sitting in the corner of the office looking at his phone the first time I saw him. That office was always crowded with management, a place employee out on the floor said they went to hide so I hadn’t paid him any attention. I didn’t know who he was or why he was commenting on a conversation he hadn’t been invited into when Daryl was nice enough to clue me in.
“Oh, this is Danny. He will be taking my place as Cap Team Manager.”
I didn’t like him from the jump. He wore his sunglasses on his head and spoke as if all the problems we had would simply vanish once “wait until they get a load of me”. And as much as I hoped that were true, I had my doubts. It didn’t take me long to realize that our new leader was there under his own set of skillful praise.
Our replacement leader was not only wanting the usual the two, sometimes three, truckloads of freight unloaded and sorted but was also looking to impress the elders. He volunteered us to have more and more departments on the floor stocked by the time the night crew came into stock. All of this with a constantly fluctuating crew of hires, fires, and quitters, not to mention the ones who were always continuous and on more than one occasion violent.
“Davidson!” I had shouted over the sound of rollers on the line, a stretchable line of rollers carrying boxes down off the truck and to the guys sorting it at the other end. Davidson, a new hire, was the size of a football player and easily must have weighed 400 pounds. He had only been working a week and even though his temper was quick triggered, he could throw an entire truck from one end to the other without complaint. The problem was he had a nasty habit of shoving the boxes down the line as if he were launching grenades at the enemy. Doing so, damaged freight, sent freight off the line and smashed fingers of the guys on the other end.
“Davidson!” I shouted again, trying to get his attention. When he finally looked at me, I felt a little spooked by the look on his face. “You are pushing too hard again!”
“Man, why don’t you tell these assholes to hurry the hell up!” he shouted back at me. “Look at the line, its packed full again!”
“Yes, I know, it does that when they have to move and reset pallets.”
“Fuck that!” he shouted and started down the line of rollers violently forcing the line of boxes to spill out onto the floor and bunch together. Boxes of every shape, size and weight spilled out onto the floor of both the trailer and the dance floor where guys on the other end shouted for the line to stop. But all I could do is watch this brute of a man as he stormed toward me. The only thing I could think was, “I hope he hurts me because I don’t know how much more of this I can take.”
For this job, I had stepped so far outside my comfort zone, so far outside the box, so far away from what I am and who I am, I couldn’t even find my comfort anymore. I was miserable and unhappy. All I thought about anymore was work. How to deal with it. How to survive it. I took a job I thought I could learn how to do and found myself drifting alone out at sea without a harbor insight. I did the best I could with every ounce of myself, and with little to no help or advice from the upper management. I felt used.
I knew even before I pushed open that heavy wooden door leading into the small manager’s office, that my six-month performance review was going to be a far cry from the positive reviews I had received before. But I didn’t really know how bad until I opened the door and found not one but three managers sitting around the tiny room, none of them make eye contact.
Walmart has a policy that when reviews or talks are given there is supposed to be another person in the room as a witness to what happened. The fact that Danny, thought he needed two other people with him meant that he was concerned with how that little meeting was going to go. It was unlikely that he was concerned that my happiness at my good review would send me into such gleeful hysterics that I would be unable to control myself and he would need these other two to pull my fat ass off him. I thought I felt something hit the floor between my feet, turned out it was that last bit of heart.
Standing there in that manager's office that day, my fight-or-flight mechanism twitched. It felt like a morgue, as if no one wanted to be in there, especially me. I thought I was going to be fired. I had wished, contemplated, threatened, and screamed and maybe even prayed a little over the past months for the strength to quit, to walk out of that building and never come back. But I hadn't, I kept pushing, kept trying to get it right. I tortured myself for absolutely nothing.
“Come in, have a seat, Jennifer,” Danny said, speaking first, and I did, reluctantly.
The small office was square in shape with just enough room to hold two desks on either side of the room. One desk was held a computer, files, and manuals, while the one across from it seemed to be the catch all for everything else that came into the room. Four plastic chairs filled the space between the desk, all but one was occupied. The room felt tighter than it had before, and I felt a twinge of claustrophobia, another kick to my fight or flight. To give myself a little room, I leaned my butt against the catch all desk and put my feet in the chair, giving Danny my undivided.
Danny sat with his back to the computer, papers in his hands. I had tried to like him; some days were easier than others. He was an average guy with average looks, but something about him just told you a bald head and beer gut was somewhere in his future. He had thin blonde hair, combed back from his face, and usually topped with his sunglasses, but not that day. He was one of those guys who was always warning people about what a bad ass he was which was probably one of the first things I didn’t like about him.
Brandon, the overnight manager, sat in front of the door, opposite of Danny. Handsome, sweet, and a good personality with a fondness for bike riding and music. I don’t think I ever saw him get upset, though I did see reflections of a bad day set in his face, though he never took it out on people. There was a woman there, but I cannot remember who she was and if she said anything I don’t remember what it could have been.
“As you know, it's time for your six-month review,” Danny started, some papers sitting on his crossed legs.
Sitting on the desk, my hands gripping the edge to the point of pain. I leaned on my hands, and let my head fall between my shoulders. I don’t know if my brain registered what he was saying at first or if I was just trying to save myself the disappointment of hearing it all by only reaching out to grasp ahold of certain words--
“--giving you the lowest score possible--”
“--this job isn’t for you--”
“--not good with people--”
“--complaints against you--”
Every word felt like a blow to my self-esteem, the pain of complete failure. I felt like an idiot. Nothing I had done, nothing I had tried to do, pushing myself out of my comfort zone, driving myself crazy with anger and frustration to do a good job did any good. It didn't matter that Danny had never pulled me aside and told me there was a problem. It didn't seem to matter then when the company instigated a new protocol; they asked for time to iron out the kinks; a courtesy not allotted to me. Danny gave me the lowest score allowed, so all the other scores I had received before this, all the hard work I did before, wiped out.
There was something about me that Danny didn't like, but the reason is unclear. I know that when he first arrived and increased our workload without the stabilizing the workload, we already had; I told him so. When a former manager I worked under came back as a regular Joe and didn't like me telling him what to do, tried to rile up the crew against me. I didn't hide my anger at him for putting me through it. Maybe it was me not liking him. I have never been good at hiding my disdain. And as he was reading off my review, he had made no effort to hide himself. Afterword, I heard rumors about his distaste for women who were less than cooperative. Of course, people could have just been saying that to be sympathetic.
I don’t know if it were the tears, I could no longer hold back or the feel like something alien like was about to come through my chest, but I very much needed to be out of that room and away from that man. Before anyone could move, I was on my feet weaving through legs and chairs, passed Danny and the witness to my humiliation, fighting to get out that door as if the room were on fire, mumbling through a tight throat and dry mouth about needing a minute. I weaved I was in a full-blown panic, but there wasn’t any relief on the other side of that door.
I poured out of that tiny office as if there hadn’t been enough air inside and hoped to find a great big lungful of relief in that grey hallway that ran the length of the store. To my annoyance, I only found more people. I had to get away from people. The voices, the energy, the words felt like fingers touching me, agitating me, holding me down and keeping me there. If I didn’t, I would draw attention, attention I didn’t want or need, and eventually someone would ask what was wrong, a question my ego wasn’t ready to admit out loud; that I’d been an idiot and a fool to think that hard work and determination would get me through, would earn me a little corrective feedback if I were doing it wrong or maybe a little respect. But apparently, that was another one of those fairy tales like unconditional love and they create all men equal.
There wasn’t a lot of praise in my family. Or understanding, support, or emotion for that matter. My mother was one who couldn’t hide her distain either, though hers was directed at me. She hated everything about me and wasn’t shy about telling me about it. She never would admit she didn’t like me, but I could feel it. She hated me for making her a mother, and maker her feel things she didn’t want to feel; like guilt at not being around. I tried everything to win her love. Changed who I was, what I want, what I looked like, but there was always something. It wasn’t until she got a call from Texas, two states away from her Kansas home. A man she barely knew on the other end. He was fighting with me, hitting me, spitting on me, and he was calling so she could listen. The man continued his tirade, cursing me, punching me, backing me into the corner of the room. On his way out of the room, he picked up the phone to tell her, I was a whore before throwing the phone down and leaving the room. When I felt safe enough to go for the phone, some part of me thought she might ask if I was alright, I was wrong. “How could any daughter of mine be so stupid?”
I squeezed past people, elbowed through groups and freight being rolled this direction or that, mumbling something that sounded perversely polite. I burst through the swinging double doors that lead out of the back and onto the sales floor. I was somewhere between the men’s department and the shoes when I caught sight of Carmon, someone I considered a friend, and she of me.
“Jennifer, what’s wrong?” the small woman said moving toward me. For the briefest of seconds, I wanted to tell her, “I fucked up!” I wanted to let go of all that anger and frustration, hurt and outrage, but I stopped myself. If I opened my mouth and let it out, it probably wasn’t going to be pleasant, or kind or quiet for that matter. I liked Carmen, she had been sweet to me when I first started, and even bought me a cake and present for my birthday once. I didn’t want to take this out on her. Before she could get to me, I waved a hand at her and hurried away, cutting through the baby department into the men’s department.
I dodged and weaved past people, carts, displays and shelves until I burst out into the night air, taking a sharp deep breath as if coming up from underwater. I moved out of the flow of traffic coming in and out of the store and over to the side of the building where there were no people and no lights. The cool night air felt good on skin soaked in sweat and heated with fever. I took long, deep drags of smoke, held it in my lungs before blowing what my lungs didn’t absorb out through my nostrils.
A smile that held no laughter spread across my face as my tightened throat grew unbearable as I completely let go. The tears that had all fallen where joined by others and leaning against the cement building, I slide down the wall until my ass met the ground. You idiot! You stupid fucking idiot! I wanted to scream, but the sight of customers passing by kept me from it, even in my state, I still tried to be a good employee.
I’m not sure how long I sat there on the dirty cement. I knew it wasn’t long enough, the only way it would have been to never have went back inside, and for a minute I thought about it, but even that was beyond my ability to do. My son was in there, working the third shift we had started together, but I had thought I was special, good. But there was also the freedom. My entire life had been at someone else’s discretion. I got married too young, had kids too young, divorced too young. Through all of it, I was helped by others until the choices I made for my life, my children’s lives were no longer my own. That job afforded me a freedom that I could have gotten nowhere else.
Once back inside the cell, I tried to busy myself with removing pens, printer pages, and lists that I always seemed to be stuffed or sticking out of some pocket or another. I stripped off the navy-blue vest with the built-in yellow target on the back in case an active shooter happened to wonder if half his work was already done for him, as Danny continued reading aloud my list of flaws and defects, rounding it off with my lack of civil tone.
“You have several complaints against you from your crew.”
“I give as good as I get, Danny! If they choose to be a constant pain in my ass, constantly take up time, constantly need attention and argumentative, we are not going to be buddies. This is a job not Romper Room!” I said, feeling my control slipping with every word I uttered. Out of the fifteen some odd guys that were on the crew at the time, I bet I could have narrowed down that list to the two or three that had the problem with me. They had had that problem since day one. Some of the guys didn’t like being put in departments where I needed them but wanted to be put in the departments where they wanted to go. They didn’t like that when they gave me shit, I gave it right back.
“Speaking of complaints, is there a reason why this review needs an audience?”
All three seemed to try and speak at once, but Danny’s voice won out. “There needs to be a witness…” Brandon jumped to his feet and volunteered to go as if he couldn’t wait to get out of that room. It wasn’t the only one feeling it. Danny continued to ramble about how much I suck and told me he couldn't make me quit the position, but he thought I would be better off as a department manager working by myself.
“Do you have any openings for department managers?” I’d asked, hoping to get away from him as fast as possible.
I threw the nylon vest I had balled in my hands onto the desk behind him, by tomorrow the story would sound as if I threw a hammer at his head instead of a nylon vest. I was done. I was done with this conversation, with this company, with this whole job.
“And by that action, I can see I’ve made the right choice.”
As soon as I was out of that office, I was on my phone first texting my son who was at work somewhere in the building and then calling my husband. I was looking for support, compassion, an ally, but the more I told him the angrier I became. I had worked hard, done my best and gotten the work done. My voice became louder and louder echoing in the hollows of the back room. I felt out of control and on the verge of madness, while my husband kept telling me to stop and calm down before they fired me. His concern for the job, the paycheck, outweighed his concern for my pride, my hurt, my self-respect. I’m sure that if I had been in a different state of mind some part of me might have been able to understand that, but not nearly enough.
I quit my job as supervisor and went back to stocking shelves with my son for a couple more weeks at least. I saw Danny in the store from time to time until one day he was gone. I heard he took another job at another retailer. And one of the few females that had been on the unloading crew took my spot as supervisor, though I heard she didn’t fare much better.
I like to think I learned a little bit about myself. For one, I don’t play well with others. And I don’t like it when the fate of the project depends on others. Wally-World can say a lot of things about me, but they can’t say that I didn’t get shit done. After I left, I started looking for something better, something that might make me feel good about myself. Something to prove to myself that I am better than some egotistical blow hard. Something that said, not so stupid. I decided to go to college. I am currently working toward my bachelor’s degree in English and Creative Writing.
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