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Chronicles of a Serial Job Hopper: Time Theft, Underdressed Vampires,
Salmon Ceviche, & Other BS
by Kasey Gonzalez
I started a new job last week. I don’t really like working, but that’s nothing special. I don’t think anyone does. I’ve worked fast food, retail, summer camps, warehouses, I’ve even worked as a substitute teacher. It’s kind of absurd how America would trust me with a group of children before legally allowing me to drink a margarita.
--
“On the rocks?” I ask.
“That’d be great,” The man grinned.
“Alright, I’ll have that right out for you.” I said, grabbing the menus from the table. I smiled. I like saying “on the rocks.”
--
I’m not particularly excited about this new job. I wonder how much longer till I grow tired of it. I think I burn through jobs faster than anyone I’d ever met. My friends always compare me to Trish from the Disney show Austin & Ally. I like working different kinds of jobs though, it keeps things interesting. I hate being bored, so when something becomes too normal, too repetitive, too monotonous, it’s my time to go.
The only thing that sucks about being a serial job hopper is tax season; I still haven’t touched those W2s on my dresser.
--
“Hey Kasey, you have two more on P3,” Melissa shouts from across the bar.
--
One thing that’s been on my mind working as a waitress is the fact that we all have tables to tend to. We have the table of academics, the table of finances, the table of friends and family, the table of health, the table of love and romance, and so on. If I spend too much time at one table, it could affect the other. It costs to forget things (presuming that each table has close to equal maintenance levels, of course). I can’t leave certain areas of my life unattended for long, but it’s hard. And sometimes, even when I’m doing my best, things still don’t work out the way I want them to.
“Uh, ma’am?” The lady looks up from the plate I just set down.
“Is something wrong?”
“What is this?” She curls her lip in disgust.
“It’s Ceviche,” I say.
“No, this is not what I ordered. I ordered Salmon.”
“No…” I trail off for a moment, thinking. “No ma’am, I’m pretty sure this is what you ordered.
The ceviche tostada with salmon.” I politely pointed at the menu.
“So this is not the salmon?”
“Well, it has salmon on it. It’s ceviche; that’s why it’s chopped up,” I clarify. She shook her head.
“Uh-uh, see this is just not going to work. This don’t even look good.”
I plastered a smile on my face that didn’t quite reach my eyes, “Alright then, no worries. I’ll speak to the manager and see if he can take it off your tab.”
I remove the plate from her table.
--
The good thing about jobs is that I can quit them. Unless I’m in the military, of course. But if I’m honest, I’d think I'd find a way to quit that too if I really wanted to. I used to work at the Amazon by the airport from December of twenty-twenty one till early spring that following year. I sorted boxes in the palletize department for about a week, before being relocated to a place called “Chutes.” Everyone working in palletize who had been recruited for chutes at some point complained about it. After a few days of wiggling my way out of the training sessions and back to the familiar sound of the rolling rods, I gave up.
I could see why people didn’t like Chutes. We had to load large boxes called “Gaylords'' almost twice my size, with a pallet jack, to its corresponding truck. There was a bit of a learning curve to the system but once I got it, it wasn’t all that bad. I didn’t mind working in Chutes. It kept me busy, and the amount of walking proved to be beneficial since it decreased my back pain. There’s just no good in standing around for long periods of time. Besides, there were a variety of things I could do, like setting up the gaylords, placing stray packages from the bins into the large containers, etc. It was nice because for the most part, no managers were up my ass twenty-four seven, plus I could hide in the aisles if I wanted to catch a break. And there were dozens and dozens of aisles.
We were short on scanners, and a lot of the time if we were doing miscellaneous tasks we didn’t even need them. On those days that I didn’t have to use a scanner, since my badge hadn’t been assigned to any device, there was no way of tracking me on the clock, and I got away with coming in a few minutes late each morning and taking an extra ten minutes during lunch. Or twenty. Once, I had fallen asleep and was gone for a full hour. No one batted an eye.
The only thing I had to be on the lookout for when I was doing work that required me to use a scanner were CPTs. CPTs are gaylords that have to be taken to a truck by a certain time. Expedited shipping I suppose. Sometimes the managers updated the CPT list without warning, and I’d miss a few every now and then.
Missing your CPTs was a huge no-no.
--
“Paul wants to see you,” My coworker said.
“Who's Paul?” I asked.
“He’s the manager upstairs, but I think he’s taking over for the week.”
“Oh, okay. What does he want?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know, he just told me to come get you. He looks mad. Did you mess something up?” He asked, teasing.
“No, I don't think so. I’ll go see what he wants. Is he at the desk?”
“Yeah.” I walk through what feels like hundreds of ailes, pallet jack trailing behind me, until I finally reach the desk. And sure enough, there stands Paul, arms crossed, waiting for me.
“Kasey?” He asked.
“That’s me.”
“So tell me,” He shifted, stroking his beard, his movements simmering with frustration. “What’s going on? Are you aware that you missed both of your two o’clocks?” He finished, face getting puffy. I don’t know what it is about middle aged white men, their faces get so red when they're angry.
“No. I wasn’t…aware of that.” I said. He towered over me, or at least tried to. We didn’t have much of a height difference.
“I was told this wasn’t your first time missing a CPT, does this happen often? Do you even know what CPT stands for?” he said, tone boiling now. It wasn’t a serious question. He was mocking me.
“I know what it means. I’ve been working here for three months.” I responded, challenging his tone.
“So then explain to me why I had to take them there myself.”
“Y’all keep updating the list without telling us.” I protested.
“We discussed that during the meeting this morning. You’re supposed to check back every ten minutes.” He argued.
“I just did like 3 CPTs back to back, there’s barely any time to check the screen,” I stopped to think. “I did check it though, I checked on my way back from my last one o’clock. I think it must’ve updated as soon as I left” I realized.
“You think or you know?” He asked. I just stared blankly at him, not sure how to respond. He sighed. “I’m going to need you to get it together.” Get it together?
“Yeah,” I caved, wanting the interaction to end. I took my pallet jack and turned my foot to leave, but he reached for the handle. “Since you’re here right now, let's go ahead and take a look at the updated list for this evening.” He scrolled through the computer, then began searching through his pockets.
“You know what?” He took out a pen. “I’ll even do you a favor and write them down for you, that way you can’t say you didn’t know.” He smiled sarcastically, face still an obnoxious shade of red, and scribbled away on a sticky.
“Thanks.” I said flatly, taking the note. “Hold on, these two are like twenty aisles apart.” I pointed out. He handed me my pallet jack, “Well, I guess you better get to walking.”
I looked at him in disbelief. There’s no way he just said that. I was indignant. Still, I maintained composure. “Sure, I’ll do that.” I said, eyeing him, pulling the jack towards me.
And I did get to walking. I walked out of there. I was getting sick of the job anyway. I wish I would’ve been there to see his face when he found out all three CPTs were still in their stations, miles apart. I wonder if he had to be the one to load them too. I laughed at the thought.
After that incident, I vowed to never work at another Amazon again, but I made the mistake of reapplying in January for the early bird shift at another location, knowing damn well I wasn’t an early bird. I heavily underestimated how much I wouldn’t care to get out of bed. I didn’t even last two days.
Caring. That’s been the problem. I couldn’t give two shits about the Salmon Ceviche, or getting the CPTs in on time, none of that really mattered.
--
At times I feel like I wasn’t cut out for the workforce. I don’t think I’m lazy, when I’m into something I work hard. When I care about it I work hard. The purpose of money alone isn’t enough to
make me stay at a job for long, but maybe once I move out and become more financially independent it’ll be more than enough reason to.
--
“Excuse me miss, could we have our check please?”
“Of course,” I say. “I’ll be right back with that.”
--
Sometimes I think it’d be nice to just be a housewife, as regressive as that sounds. I don’t mind cooking or cleaning, I’d have time to keep up with my hobbies. Morning yoga, kickboxing, I could learn new music on the piano, decorate the home, and not have to deal with the financial pressure of anything. But then I remember I have to actually marry a man, and that kind of makes me sick.
--
“You bought him a truck?” I asked, dumbfounded.
“I mean, yeah, he needs it under my name since he doesn’t have a credit score,” my co-worker explained matter-of-factly. My jaw still hadn’t left the floor. She continued to fold the cutlery into the napkins.
“But you’re making the payments,” I said.
“Yeah, he’s got a lot going on right now, so I decided to help him out a little bit, at least these first couple of months.”
“Well, that’s very nice of you.” I smiled. And I meant it. Brittany was nice, but sometimes “nice” leaves you with the shorter end of the stick.
As insensitive as it sounds, she reminds me of what I don’t want to be. I don’t want to be the kind of woman that does it all. The “Super Mom'' with three kids to feed, or the “Perfect Daughter” that clears her schedule at her parent’s request, or the “Cool Girlfriend” that pretends she’s okay with her man running wild at all hours of the night. And buys him a truck as a reward. All while working multiple jobs. Some people ask for too much, they’ll take whatever you can give, and leave you a shitty tip in the end– or nothing at all.
--
I brought the check to the table and absent-mindedly set it in front of the guy. He stared blankly at it. The girl sheepishly reached to pull it from across the table, glanced at it, and handed me her card. It hardly seemed fair if I’m honest. The girl put a lot of effort into her appearance, she looked well put together. Hair done, nails done, full face of makeup, she even had some of those pink custom crocs with little fur ball charms on them. I’m sure it took her at least an hour to get ready, while the guy was in joggers and a T-shirt, and just sat there the entire time, just sucking the life right out of the atmosphere like some sort of energy vampire.
I’ve seen a few of those couples already, and they’re hard to watch. I’ve had my fair share of bad romances but if I ever allow it to get to that point, please do me a favor and throw me in a psych ward.
--
I don’t know why I chose to be a waitress. Sometimes I just do things for the plot. Just to see what will happen. Like last year, I met this rich boy at an Arab wedding. He was the groom’s cousin visiting from Dallas, and I agreed to show him around the city. I didn’t like him much at first, he walked and talked like a typical frat boy, and was clearly interested in more than just the grand tour of our tiny dismal town that is Little Rock. But I’d never hung out with a rich boy before, so I accepted his request.
—
“So what do you do? Do you just take pictures?” he asked. He had a way with words; everything he said kind of sounded like an insult. I ignored it.
“Pretty much yeah, I also teach piano on the side." I took another hit. “What about you?”
“I’m pre-med right now, but I’m thinking about switching to business. My brother goes to med school and just by watching him, I don’t think it’s worth it to be honest.”
“Yeah, I get it. Everyone I know that’s in the medical field complains about it.” I shook my head. “So what are you studying?” He asks.
“I was doing business too, but I switched to psych.” The cloud of smoke filled the air and I watched the stars through the haze, deep in thought. “Honestly, I don’t even know if I’ll end up using that degree. I don’t see myself doing any of that. Maybe I’ll use it to get into marketing, but I really don’t want to do that either.”
“Why’s that?”
“I get bored of things easy.” I admitted flatly, fighting a cough.
“That's it? You know, you don’t really have to like your job,” He says.
“Of course you do. Or at least not hate it. We’re only here for so long and it feels awful just wasting your life away working. It’s draining. And if it drains me I’d rather just not work and figure it out on my own.”
“Marry a rich guy,” he said. I snorted. “What? I’m so serious. Women have it so much easier, I promise you, you could find at least one old rich dude willing to marry you in this city.”
“Right after saying I look like his granddaughter,” I cringed. “Marrying someone for money just sounds like a whole new set of problems. I wouldn’t marry someone unless I actually love them.”
He shrugged. “You can grow to love someone. We do it all the time with the whole arranged marriage thing.”
“That’s still a thing?” I asked
“Well, it’s definitely not like it used to be. Especially here, there’s not as much pressure, but for older generations and families that are more traditional, yeah.”
“Yeah, I think I’d rather just work,” I said.
“Well you really seem to like photography, maybe you should stick to that.” He suggested.
“Yeah, I think you’re right.”
—
I swept the booths, careful to not leave anything behind or my manager would undoubtedly point it out. Maybe I should learn how to bartend, or join a program to work abroad over the summer? I don’t know what I’ll do next, and sometimes that can be a little scary, but I think I like it that way.
We’re pleased to announce the Spring 2023 issue of student work. Please check out the links below. Enjoy!
Chronicles of a Serial Job Hopper:
Time Theft, Underdressed Vampires, Salmon
Ceviche, & Other BS
by Kasey Gonzalez
Haunted
by Gabriel Shudak
Reality
by Brandi Cotner
Untitled
by Jada Parks
Womanhood
by Katelyn Smith
