The following is part of a serialized story, Everyone Thinks I Dream of Chocolate. You can find the first chapter here.
In many ways, I left the job bitter. Sure I was angry with the job itself. Even more than that, I was upset by the larger implications that I saw. The job became a way to view and understand the world. What I saw through that lens disturbed me. It was a job that could make people depressed or even wrathful. It required constant physical constitution and mental fortitude. There were ways to cope, most of them unhealthy.
It has made me somewhat resentful of others and, especially, myself. The year and a half since I have been in quarantine I have come to reflect upon it through my writing. A lot of my goals with this is to be uninhibited with these thoughts. Be honest with my anger. Be honest with my hatred.
Then again, this honesty means looking at the good times as well. Why else am I still so hung up about a place that I haven’t been to in over a year? If I am going to continue on with this story, I have to present the rise and fall. Like Henry Hill, I have to remember both the good times and the bad times.
Because the good times were really good.
I liked that besides scheduling, I didn’t have to worry about Dick calling me after work hours. I often watched Chrissy deal with stupid shit from her work at 11 at night. Her boss was an overworked office rat, constantly pulling her hair out behind the scenes while putting on a nice face for the Women’s Center at the local University. One time, Chrissy got an email about a pizza delivery at 5 in the morning, hours before her workday started.
I didn’t have to worry about that at the shop. I went in, did my shift, and got out. I didn’t mind the work, either. At least at first. A lot of it was busy work and I usually had a partner on shift. When we were bored, we talked. When we didn’t want to, we didn’t. We had a radio that we used for music. The mall also played music over the intercom.
My weekends were cool, too. It changed every week and I could have whatever day I wanted as long as I worked a weekend shift. It meant I could take a day off in the middle of the week. It was nice to spend a day like that doing errands or sleeping in or catching a matinee at the local theatre. I didn’t mind working a Saturday or Sunday as long as I got the next day off. Most people were either partying or at least hanging out on those days anyway. It meant I could work my ass off until 6pm, then party all night without a care in the world.
I liked the people I worked with, too. Jimmy and Kai were there when I started but before long, I was the longest working employee there. Soon, Christian came on board and with him Pam who brought along Amir. I even asked Chrissy to help at the shop every once in a while.
For a kid straight out of school, I had it made. I wasn’t rich by any means. I had friends who had graduated with Comp-Sci degrees. They walked out of school with jobs paying minimum 75k a year. Some of these people even complained, wanting more straight out of school. At the time, I thought they were being a bunch of spoiled brats. Actually, I still do.
But I’m a writer. What the hell do I know about money. I was making enough to move out, pay my rent, bills, student loans, and still have money left over at the end of every paycheck. What I did with the money was up to me. Again, it wasn’t alot. It was enough to go out with friends, go out with Chrissy, save up for anything I wanted.
What was most important to me was not the money, but the time to make art. My roommate at the time, Mike, was a Comp-Sci major who was making near six-figures as a 21 year old, fresh out of undergrad. It sounds good until you looked at his face when he came home everyday. He was always tired. He spent his evenings going to the gym, eating dinner, than doing nothing. Sure, he was watching tv or playing video games but it was the equivalent of taking morphine. It was a form of sedation without the appeal or consequences of drugs. It’s comfortable, but not fun. At least, not as much fun as one could have.
I had it good. I still had energy after my 8 hour shifts. I would drive right on over to a friends house and make some art or drive straight home and write a couple of pages of a story. As an ambitious slacker, I wanted to do very little at my job. It didn’t mean being lazy. It meant by the end of the day, I still had time and energy to focus on the things that actually mattered to me.
These were the good times.
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5. First Day pt.3
Danger Wonka 