Four Poems|Paul Tanner
welcome to the Chrysomelidae family
wanna bag? I ask.
no, he says.
so I scan his stuff up and tell him the price
and he taps his card against the machine
and there’s the beep and the receipt comes chugging out
and then he goes
oh actually, I will have a bag, yeah.
so I say, ok, it’s 5p.
he says fine
and puts his card to the machine again
and I say no, we have a one pound minimum spend
on card transactions
and he’s like
FUCKSAKE, THIS IS DAYLIGHT ROBBERY, THIS IS,
YOU DO THIS TO ME EVERY FUCKIN TIME,
EVERY FUCKIN TIME I COME IN HERE,
YOU DO THIS TO ME
and I say yeah.
when I get home I’ll have to google some interesting facts again.
nothing concerning the bean weevil, though.
last night I randomly looked up the bean weevil
and found out they often live in a single seed most of their lives.
I got an ominous wave in my gut and wondered if I already knew that.
had to ask myself how random that google search really was.
anyway: see you tomorrow, I said to him
as he was shuffling out with his arms full of groceries
and he turned to me
and he said yeah.
the how
the customer’s on the phone
ripping you a new one
because you’re the only one on the shop floor
and you can’t leave the counter
to go check if you have any
of her favourite yoghurt left,
and you’re telling her
sorry
but she’s saying it’s not good enough
and now a queue has formed at the counter
and since you’re the only one on the shop floor
you hang up on her
and start serving the queue
while they have a go at you
for keeping them waiting,
and you have to tell them
sorry
as you scan and pack their shit
but they say it’s not good enough
and later the manager says
he’s had all these complaints
and you try not to say
sorry
for once,
you try reasoning with him
that maybe if he got more staff
or at least came out of the office
once in a while
then maybe this wouldn’t happen
to wit he tells you
maybe he could
if he didn’t have to do so much damage control with customer services
because of you.
makes sense, dunnit?
so you say
sorry
but guess what?
it’s not good enough
it’s never good enough
for any of them
and if you do
do
that thing
you’re thinking of doing
they’ll say it was because of all those video games you play
they’ll say it was because of the porn you watch
they’ll say it was because of that music you listen to
they’ll say it was because of Trump or Corbyn or the colour of the sky
they’ll say is shows how ungrateful spoilt brats like you are
in this overgenerous, class-conscious society
and finally they’ll say maybe the problem was just
you:
after all, he was never good enough, was he?
and if they bother to gather around your barcode tombstone
and shut up long enough,
maybe they’ll hear you down there
apologising from the ground
before they muffle you
with their black wreaths
that lament
“WASN’T GOOD ENOUGH”.
(.)
yesterday some
mangy old sod who wanted a refund on the yoghurt he’d eaten
accused me of patronising him for calling him “sir”.
I was actually relieved to hear this. I hardly ever get to be blunt.
who does these days?
so I said ok, well, cards on the table, then:
I’m not pumping the yoghurt out of your stomach
to check it’s quality of taste, so get out me face.
then he threw a wobbler re: respect.
christ. all the men
with tiny dicks
lining up
to accuse shop workers
of picking on them,
and the moon is so indifferent,
so unpolitical
and never has to squeeze it’s spots
or check it’s going the right way down a one-way street.
it’s not fair.
and customers as regular as shit
shit
on the days
until the moon takes over
the rooftops
to watch and pretend it’s not watching
because we’re open late.
plumbing that depth
the work shitter is clogged.
you have to use the public ones
for customers.
it’s at the other end
of the shopping centre.
so you gotta queue up with the customers –
like you don’t take enough of their guff,
now you have to inhale their gasses,
basically literally eating their shit
while they pester you:
what shop you work in? they ask you
as you stand with them
full bladder to full bladder.
you got a sale on? why not?
don’t you have your own toilet? these are for customers!
tell your manager you should open later …
and afterwards you’re powerwalking
through the shopping centre
back to your shop
because you just know
the boss is rehearsing some speech
about how long you’ve taken,
when some old guy
blocks your path,
thrusting flyers at you.
I work here, you tell him,
pointing at your name badge.
so do I! he says. like it makes sense.
tries to put a wad of flyers in your hand again.
no, look, you back off. I don’t have me wallet on me.
and I don’t have time to shop anyway. I’m at work.
I can’t take flyers from another shop into mine;
the boss’ll bollock me, you know?
fuck, he says. real flat, like.
but then, he still thrusts them flyers at you,
trying to poke them into your closed fist.
you don’t have time for this.
you walk around him.
just another worker
as broken as the work shitters
of this work shitter of a land.
you finally get back to your shop
and lo and behold: there’s your boss:
tapping his fake Rolex, and
see them caterpillar eyebrows of furry fury
in a triangle?
aye, he’s got his speech ready alright.
he’s just dying to give it
and you’re just dying to hear it.
so you’re both dying
and the snarl rises up your throat
inch by inch
like the piss
in the broken work shitters
of this broken work shitter of a land.
Photo by Mick Haupt on Unsplash
Bio:
Been earning minimum wage, and writing about, for too long. Novel ‘Jobseeker’ doing alright on Amazon. Was shortlisted for the Erbacce 2020 Poetry Prize. Latest collection “Shop Talk: Poems for Shop Workers” is published by Penniless Press.
