Work- Part 1

It is precisely 3:36 PM and I’m working at the bookstore. On a Saturday. I usually don’t work on Saturday, but I decided to switch with my coworker, a young, college-aged aspiring writer, who decided to go to some Steampunk nerd-fest in Roswell today. I love my job, I really do, but I hate the customers. On Sunday, when I usually work, it’s so slow, so when a customer comes in I freak. How dare they disturb my peace? So working on Saturday is a pain, when it’s busier and I have no free time. I’m typing this behind my computer. It looks like I’m doing something bookstore related, but no, I’m complaining about my job. Well I’m not really complaining, I’m just commenting. I have the easiest job in the world, sit for eight hours in quiet, and do nothing most of the time. All for eight dollars an hour. Yet I love to complain.

After about a year and a half of working here, my job has become robotic. Automatic. I walk into the store, lock the door behind me. Open up the bookstore program on the computers. Check email. Print out internet orders. Make coffee and hot water. Play around on my phone until it’s opening time. Turn lights on, unlock door, put open sign on, turn on classic rock/ oldies radio station. No one really comes in for the first thirty minutes, so I’m on my phone again. First customer of the day. I grit my teeth. A kind “hello” is my standard greeting. If they have a nice face I add in a “How are you?”. For people from school who I sort-of know, the standard greeting is “hey”. If they linger near the counter, I add in a “Can I help you find anything?”

Typical browsers and buyers are my favorite. The sellers, not so much. I see them waddle in with their Publix tote bags, oversized Whole Foods paper bags and boxes and I curse them out under my breath. “Got some books to sell?” I say with a smile when they come in. I’m so good at fake smiling and laughing at customers' bad jokes I sometimes scare myself. Mostly yellowing, creased, and ripped I go through their books one by one if they're close by. If not, I toss them back into their box. Sometimes I get a rare find, a textbook or something worth buying. Most of the time they hand me a box of dusty books with the occasional dead shriveled spider mixed in. I give them their total. Most of the time they’re content with my offer, sometimes they’re not. “That’s it?” some of them say in disgust. They walk up with me to the front counter and demand for me to tell them why their books are shit. I say this with a smile of course. I’m not fazed in the slightest. Come at me, bro.