Total pages in book: 108
Estimated words: 103000 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 515(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 343(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103000 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 515(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 343(@300wpm)
She huffs before she speaks to me.
“Sandra says you left the shortbread delivery unfulfilled. It got hit by one of the forklifts. Three whole crates down.”
Jesus fucking Christ. I can’t leave people alone for two minutes.
I let out a groan. “Yes, I did leave the shortbread delivery unfulfilled, and I asked Sandra to finish it off while I got called in here to stock up the two for ones.”
I’ve had this before, plenty of times. Sandra vs me. Sandra always wins – useless cow. She’s the niece of my manager’s best friend and she’s an idiot. The brand-new temp staff know how to work stock supplies better than she does.
I usually back down when I’m confronted, accept a guilty verdict and give my apologies, but today I don’t say a word, I just stand there.
“What’s with the attitude?” Tracy says, and I realise I’ve folded my arms across my chest.
“It’s not an attitude, it’s the truth. I asked Sandra to finish up for me. If she says I didn’t, she’s a liar.”
You’d think I’d slapped Tracy across the face from her scowl.
“Sandra wouldn’t lie!”
“Well, Sandra must be confused then. I asked her to finish up the delivery for me.”
I’m not taking the blame for this. No chance. Sandra was probably flirting with Billy in the forklift bay, giving no attention whatsoever to her workload, and that’s not my fault. It never is.
Tracy raises her voice over the Christmas jingles, loud enough that customers turn their heads.
“All you have to do is apologise and take more care next time, Ella! It’s a verbal disciplinary, nothing more.”
A verbal disciplinary! Is she having a laugh? I could earn a few k for taking a night of verbal disciplinary from a well-paying client.
Having a laugh or not, my work ethic still has my blood pumping with nerves, totally at odds with my rage. I’m all for keeping my head down, soldiering on, brushing off the criticism for the sake of holding things steady, but something is bubbling inside me, and it’s not just the period demon.
I’ve been relying on my job at this store for over twelve months straight now. No sick time, no staff politics, nothing but pure, hard work. And what difference has it made to the people in the chain above me? The people who pay my wages?
None whatsoever. It never will.
I stare Tracy right in the eyes, still silent, and she looks puzzled.
“Are you going to apologise?” she asks.
“No.”
“No?”
My arms are still folded across my chest. “No. I’m not. Give the verbal disciplinary to your best friend’s niece, instead. She’s the one who fucked up today.”
Tracy looks so affronted.
“What the hell?! Sandra being Ashleigh’s niece has got nothing whatsoever to do with this!”
“It’s got everything to do with it. It always has.”
My blood is pumping faster now I’ve drawn the sword of personal insults. My comments are close to the bone, and Tracy could take some fuel from them. So, what to do? Swing or yield. Put my head down and say sorry, or keep on pushing for an equality that will never arrive. The delightful Sandra will always have the top spot over me in this place, no matter how many two for ones I stack all day.
I brace myself for Tracy’s onslaught, fight or flight mode engaged and ready, but there’s no need. The sigh that comes out of her mouth is almost a let-down, it’s so puny. It’s her who puts her sword away, not me.
“Just take more care next time, will you? No need to get into a tizz about it.” She pats my shoulder as she walks on by, and I’m in shock, open-mouthed at her response to me finally standing up to her.
A tizz?
I’d usually be shitting myself at her stock damage accusation, terrified that she’d use it against me to cut my shifts or log some crappy incident on my HR record. But the whole time I’ve been scared for nothing. Sweet fuck all.
I dared to accuse her of unprofessional favouritism in front of customers, and all she did was pat my shoulder and walk on by.
Yet again, my world is reeling. I feel almost sick as the aisles start closing in…
I’ve spent so long being afraid of losing money. Of not trying hard enough. Of not working hard enough, or being responsible enough, or earning every single penny I can in this place. And it’s all been false. Fear for nothing. Tracy isn’t going to do anything to me at all.
The store seems to stand still as I watch her pace away in her clacky shoes. The customers are still looking at me, and the tunes are still jangling overhead, but I feel distant. Empty. Done.
Yep. I’m done with this place.
My tolerance for both minimum wage AND Tracy is ready to take the leap.