Selling Drugs on Sundays
My alarm goes off at 7:30, every Sunday morning. I roll out of bed, brush my teeth and wash my face. I put on the same black collared shirt and khakis. I brush my hair, eat a cereal bar and off I go to work. Every Sunday morning I sit at the same red light for over five minutes, I don’t know why it takes so long to change. I always find myself wondering, what if I didn’t go to work today? Somehow I always end up going. It’s extremely hard to convince myself to go when I know I’ll be doing a lot of work for minimum wage, but someone’s got to do it.
I walk in the door at 8:30, everyone looks miserable and I know that no one wants to be there. I walk to the back of the pharmacy, open a register and prepare for the customers to arrive. At work I always need to keep a smile on my face and I need to be extremely polite to everyone, which I don’t mind at all. Throughout the day I deal with hundreds of people, some that are very nice, others that feel they are better than me and can therefore treat me like dirt. I help fill prescriptions, sell them to sick people, clean and also work as a cashier. I look at the clock at least a thousand times throughout the day and time seems to move by so slowly. Some days I work with some really nice girls, and we have fun talking and gossiping. Other days I work with people that I barely know and we stand in silence and pretend to look busy.
When the pharmacy is slow, I clean out old prescriptions that were supposed to be picked up two weeks ago and I wonder why the person never came. Whenever adolescents come in with friends and are joking around and having fun, I smirk to myself knowing that they’ll be working too in a few years. Towards the end of my shift I “face-off” the shelves, which means pulling everything forward and putting back things that people pick up and are too lazy to put back on their own.
When I look at the clock and see that there are only a few minutes left, I realize that working there isn’t so bad. When the next shift arrives, we make small talk and I pull my drawer and take it to the back room. I sit down at a cold, round table and count my money. Then I pick up my pay check, it’s not a lot, but enough to get me by for another two weeks. Going to work encourages me to go to college and work hard, so that I can have a good job that I enjoy going to. I feel compassion for people that have to actually go to a job that they hate every single day. At 1:15 I get in my car and drive home and realize that things aren’t so bad and that I wont have to go back… until Tuesday.
Filed by Mr. Hillman at March 26th, 2008 under Confessions of Serial Teenager
i like this vignette. it reminds me of how all of the places i work/worked in sucked with the same horrible routine
dwagrap — March 27, 2008 @ 6:06 pm