The forgotten ones
A letter to my local store clerk.
I see you.
Working your ordinary job at the local convenience store.
The light in your eyes seems dull. I can’t help but wonder what makes them sparkle. It wasn’t your dream to work behind a candy-filled counter, was it? To serve careless customers and repeat the same tired questions? I bet you feel like a broken record sometimes. Even my responses to you make me feel like a broken record. I’ll try harder next time, I promise. I’ll make more of an effort to engage with you. I’d like to see you laugh, because your furrowed brows and regimented movements make me think you haven’t had a reason to laugh all day.
What are you thinking about between all the “next pleases”? Do you entertain yourself by guessing what kind of customer the next person will be? The man with the fuzzy beard, bald head, and dragon-sleeve tattoo looks scary, but he approaches you with such warmth. I wonder if this interaction will be the highlight of your day.
Do you remember me from last time, or have all our faces blurred together? I make an effort to smile at you, and you smile back, but it’s the same smile you gave to everyone in front of me. You move like a robot, and even when you smile, it seems like gravity is pulling it down. Did you judge me, as I am judging you? I swear I don’t think I’m better than you, but I’m sure you’re used to people treating you that way. It’s okay if you put me in the same box as those other people. I get it. So many people don’t dig beneath the surface. They lack the compassion to see that we’re the same. We just got dealt different cards in life.
I see you smoking outside sometimes, and I hear you making jokes with your colleagues about drinking after work. You seem so enthused about filling your glass to the brim with cheap wine from the bottle-o next door. I didn’t see your eyes sparkle, though. And while there was some loud cackling, it felt empty—as though each breath between laughs sucked the life out of the air. I thought I could see bright and beautiful flowers begin to wither and fall when you stopped laughing. And while you express a sound of happiness that reverberates down my spine, all I can feel is sadness. I don’t think I pity you, but perhaps I do. Why else would I be asking myself if you’re satisfied with your life?
God, does that make me a bad person? I don’t think I’m better than you, but I’ve spent so long wondering if you’re happy that I must presume you aren’t, because I’m not in your position and I’m happy. If I were in your position, I think I’d be unhappy too. I’m just trying to sympathise with you, because we’re one and the same, you and I. I don’t see you as any less human than I am. We’re just on different paths. I wish I could encourage you to do what makes you happy. I wish I could tell you to do what makes your eyes sparkle like diamonds in the sun, but you’re just a stranger to me, and I don’t want to overstep. Perhaps I’m pushing my desires onto you because I see your dull eyes in the mirror sometimes. That’s probably pretty selfish of me, I’m sorry.
We’ve been shown what success looks like since we were children. I don’t remember seeing your job in the category of success. I remember firefighters, zookeepers, actors, musicians, and doctors—but not store clerks. I don’t say this to sound mean; it’s just that I can’t recall anyone saying they wished to work at a convenience store. I have a feeling if I asked you if it was your childhood dream to work here, you’d say no. It’s just a hunch. I mean, I would hope you’d look happier if it were your dream job.
I say all of this assuming that the man you just served in the navy blue suit, who didn’t even bother to look at you, has a higher job satisfaction than you. Yet, when he met my eyes briefly while collecting his grocery bags, I could have sworn they looked as dull as yours. You probably assume he’s better than you while driving off in his silver Mercedes Benz, but I could tell by his structured movements and tired eyes that he’s the same as you. He’s just wrapped a little differently. Come to think of it, I don’t think you looked at him either. I wonder if there was a mutual understanding between the two of you. A job is a job.
As you pack my lemons into my brown paper bags, I wonder if you’re actually smarter than all of us. I wonder if you know that every job becomes a job after a while, so you’ve settled for something that requires less effort and commitment. Yeah. Maybe you’ve cracked the code. Maybe you secretly pity us. I mean, I’ve heard the exact same conversation regarding drinking after work play out in an office environment before:
“GOD, I cannot WAIT to go home and have a glass of wine.”
Why is it that one is accepted, and the other is frowned upon? Is it because your job isn’t as respected in society? Probably. I guess it seems sadder if you talk about drinking in your outdated, asbestos-riddled home in comparison to the white two-story-marble-kitchen-countertop lawyer home.
Did you have a childhood dream? If so, why did you give up on it? Perhaps this was your dream, but I can’t imagine it to be so. Otherwise, your eyes wouldn’t feel so cold as they stare back at mine.
I say all of this to let you know that, even though ordinary lives like yours don’t end up in books or movies, I find you fascinating. Not in an animal-in-the-zoo kind of way, but in a human-to-human kind of way. I am equally interested in both the rich man with the Mercedes Benz, and you, the store clerk who just packed my bags and said, “Have a nice day,” for the hundredth time today.
I hope you have a nice day too.
Thank you for taking the time to read these string of words that came directly from my heart to your screen.