Illustration by Bob AulOur spirits are crushed, one chubby, middle-aged coupon clipper at a time.
On my first day at Albertsons, the biggest blow to my self-esteem wasn't the “Welcome to Team Albertsons!” indoctrination video I had to watch. It wasn't the apron I had to wear, or my manager's incessant reminders that I'd be earning minimum wage.
I figured on all of that. It was my encounter with you that caught me off-guard.
I was cleaning Aisle 4 when you approached me, squinted at my name badge and screeched, “Where's the prune juice?”
I was supposed to follow the procedure outlined in our employee training video and lead you to the juice, grinning like a lizard.
There was just one problem: we were already in the juice aisle—hence the sign above our heads reading “Aisle 4: Juice”—and you were standing right next to the prune juice.
All I could do was sigh, walk a few steps to my right, slide a bottle off the shelf and silently hand it to you.
Thanks for shopping Albertsons—and for reaffirming the futility of my job.
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