Bagger On Fire

A dream come true is a delusion to be medicated. I went to the asylum in cuffs. My dream was to break free from cashiering and hence society by becoming a night stocker. Grandeur is a state of mind and socializing is slavery. After many rejections spanning several years, I was made one of grocery's elite. Many times we climb the mountain and find nothing at the apex. Annoyance is inescapable and we're always free to live in our own world. Escape isn't a reality: the world won't be through with us until we succumb to it.

Imagine freedom from small talk and faking smiles. I dropped out of civilization, living where thought is unadulterated. As I walked past people talking and spectating aimlessly, I wondered what asinine world they lived in. What's the point of inviting people to a party when you've already got booze? Simply incomprehensible. Intense drudgery followed by daylight in my leisure was the price. Boredom doesn't kill, it rapes.

I dazzled them in dairy and was recruited by night crew in October, 2007. The driving force behind the three-man crew was our boss, a kind homeless man. He stocked like a maniac with a body wrecked from 40 years of manual labor. He led us to success and we had some laughs — until he got fired for moving freight out the back door. The crew disintegrated without his leadership.

New hires disappoint under the baton of an idiot. Upon being fired this week, the deaf new hire sporting a battle flag belt buckle shouted a diatribe featuring the racial slur that has become an American fetish. Good riddance, I hated the way he looked. Third shift's jackass in charge, renowned for stocking like an incontinent drunk, successfully campaigned to have me banished for my slow and inconsistent performance. After one year on nights, I was back amongst the customer slime. Demons never die.

Courtesy clerk is the ultimate joke job, skillfully performed by the prepubescent and mentally retarded alike. As if bagging groceries wasn't simple enough, the teen slackers even get to sleep in their cars. The night was mine once more on the shift I know best. My first shift started at 3 pm and I was back to a 6 am bedtime. The night can take me anywhere.

My hands fly as the fire in my mind screams for a release. Is the fake smile showing or am I still stone-faced? I can almost hear Beethoven and Ozzy. Excited by the violin, my eyes roll as my brain melts into my nerves. I've got to calm the deepening intensity in my stare, it might look bad. Desperation and distortion threaten to overcome. To ward off the onslaught, I work furiously while focusing on the guitar screaming in my head.

Article Author: Joe Harris

Joe Harris is a disgruntled writer with an affinity for loud music and paisley ties. The misanthropic fulminator enjoys sarcasm but has a tolerance for little else than alcohol. A veteran supermarket flunkie who abhors customers, Harris copes with the tedium of menial labor by brooding on the job. …

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