Do you Hear me: a Christmas Story

Do you Hear me: a Christmas Story

A rainbow of hues blur together in my peripheral vision as my eyes haze over in defense from the swarm of individuals who demand my attention. Christmas themes of reds and greens are fighting generic holiday displays glowing white and blue, and florescent Yellow light is piercing into my eyeballs and adding a sickly sadness to the tacky light displays. My ears are consumed by the hoard of customers who have joined to produce a debilitating dull roar. Occasionally a shrewd comment lifts to the surface and stings my ear sharply enough that I can differentiate between the syllables spewed from humans that are more similar to snarling dogs than the genital and loving creatures portrayed in the Christmas VHS. That tape plays on loop alongside the Christmas hymn CD for 24 Hours a day. 

Suddenly my blurred vision focuses on the rockets of arching spit spewing past the fever blister on the lip of an elderly woman who seems to have erupted into a pink hue because of her aggravation. Or perhaps she has a pink hue because of the cold? Her voice begins to take structure, and no, she’s livid. Upon lifting my eye lid after a rather long blink, I notice that the woman has begun to shake, not unlike a Chikwawa. 

“Did you hear me?” She bellows. 

I had not.

“Are you paying attention at all?”

I am trying to, but I keep finding myself wondering who would buy a VHS tape. Why would they buy a VHS tape. Would they have their own video player, or would they expect us to carry VHS player? If we were selling tapes, wouldn’t it make sense to sell the players? What if they wanted to buy the display TV with the built in VHS player! That would be so wonderful to never have to watch these terrible Christmas movies—

“Excuse me!” she shouts at me. 

She is tapping her foot and waving her hands in my face. I am deeply unsettled by this obviously sick woman invading my personal space, but I am impressed that she has the coordination to move so many limbs with such intensity. 

“I’m sorry” I squeak. 

Tears swell up in my eyes. I am sorry. I want to be good at my job. I want to be kind and helpful, but its all just too much. A gust of hot air that no one else seems to be bothered by ignites my body. It feels as though my skin is melting into the stiff fabric of my itchy polyester uniform, my uniform that collects sweat and orders. Everything Stinks! I can smell not only own body odor but also the individual smells of the collective group of customers. It’s overpoweringly nauseating. 

It happens again. I throw up. It has happened every day since November 1. Most days I’m able to hide it better. I can duck in the corner or run outside. Today is the first time it has happened in front of customers, especially so many customers. As I go down to clean my mess, I feel firm hands pressing on my shoulders. One coworker is pushing me out of the way so she can apologize to the customer and the manager grips his hand firmly around my arm to pull me out of the sight of the other employees. He doesn’t know that he is hurting me, but I speculate that at this point, it doesn’t really matter. 

“Are you feeling better?” The manager askes out of obligation. 

“Yes,” I lie. I place my paper cup on the table; the tap it makes against the silence is pleasant to my ears and throbbing head. 

“Listen, I need you to know” The manager stiffens his body language; his feet become firmly planted on the ground. Annoyed he demands “Look at me!” 

I look at him, but did I really have a choice. I would typically focus on his nose, but this manager has a wart on his left nostril that makes me deeply uncomfortable. I would hate for him to think I was staring at his nose because of an abnormality. I settle on focusing on his unibrow so that I don’t have to look him in the eyes.  

With a deep and disheartening sigh, he says, “We were really hoping this would work out. You’re a sweet girl, but this is your third big customer complaint, and that’s overlooking several smaller offenses” 

I had heard this speak many times before by different employers. Arguing never works; they never care, but I must try! “Please!” I beg. “If I could just work in the back. I could load pallets or take inventory.”

Like all the others, he sighs as if his heart is burdened by my plight, but I know it is an act and he feels more uncomfortable by my presents more rather than he feels any kind of empathy towards me. 

“No” He spouts firmly “Its equal, even Steven! Everyone takes turns putting out the stock and everyone takes turns at the register.”

“But maybe there’s a more efficient way to do things.” My voice quivers. 

“If you want to work here, you will do things our way.” I see his eyes flicker into an eye roll after a deep breath. He continues. “Take the rest of the holiday season off. You will be on schedule in the new year.” 

I’ve heard this many times before. I don’t know if it is because they don’t want to pay me unemployment or if its because they are afraid I might sue if I’m fired because of anxiety. I’m often told to leave or go home from my place of work and the employers don’t have to take any responsibility. Somehow, they can always tell that I don’t have it in me to fight back. 

On the way to the parking lot, I see woman who complained about me. Only her nose is red now and the rest of her face is eerily pale. I hear frustrated grunts as she attempts to shift the bags into a position that will allow her to open the door. The store has slowed down significantly but two other employees near by are using this lull in activity to carry on a conversation and don’t notice the elderly woman struggling with her bags.  

“May I help you?” I ask, disgusted by the flue germs that are certainly contaminating her groceries. 

She shoves her bags at me. She’s muttering, clearly unhappy that it took so long for someone to offer to help her. I hear swear words under her breath as I put the bags in her car and wait to ensure that she is securely in her seat. She slams her door nearly smashing my hands in the process. She quickly drives away without a second glance in my direction, but not before I could as cheerfully as I could muster: “Merry Christmas.”