Journal #6312

Memoirs of a Smoothie
James Archibald

They say that a person's workplace is a reflection of their soul.
Oh dear.
But I suppose it's partly true, in a way... I mean, I had made my first ever place of work - a smoothie bar in Clydebank - just the way I liked it. I was the only member of staff who was full-time, and as such I spent 45 hours a week working alone. Yes, it was exceptionally boring and lonely but it did give me an unparalleled level of freedom. There was an organised mess theme to everything. It was kind of like one of those themed parties except instead of a party, it was a mess. It was a system, and I knew where everything was (after an hour or two of searching.)

So imagine my surprise, nay, my disgust when I came in one day to find that not only had the place been tidied but also that every single bloody thing had its own labelled place to be. There was a labelled place in the freezer for the frozen fruit, a labelled place on the counter for the blenders, a labelled place under the sink for the sodding washing up liquid. Christ, the shop had been turned into one of those people who leave sticky notes on the fridge for people to read.
"Hi, I've gone out to get some milk. I'll be back in 30 minutes. Don't forget to feed the budgie."
I didn't care one bit about the budgie, I wanted my mess back.

It seemed that no matter how much of a valuable employee I tried to be the job would continue to break down my spirit and leave me teetering on the edge of the cliff of sanity, the wild sea of mental disability crashing against the rocks below. It became apparent over the months that the reason for this degradation was a subtle blend of a 12-track (I counted) compilation CD and the unimaginable stupidity of the general public.

I think it's a genuine form of torture in some countries to submit a person to a horrible sound looped endlessly for hour after hour, day after day and frankly, with the quality of the Clydebank Shopping Centre PA system, that is exactly what I maintain I was exposed to. Just imagine an album full to bursting with every single song you already hate played with such frequency that you begin to hear it as one painful never-ending loop. Sure, it's ok for the customers who are merely in for a couple of hours at most but it shows such contempt and malice toward the (relatively) innocent shop staff that I oftentimes found myself wondering if there was some great conspiracy regarding the shopping centre management, perhaps in an attempt to keep the general public subdued and thick enough to keep buying - shopping for too short a time to notice the atrocity being committed upon them. Or perhaps I was just a bit paranoid.

Certainly the mind-altering techniques just mentioned could account for the continued idiocy shown by all but the rarest of customers. After five months I had kind of hoped that in all the time I had worked there Natural Selection would have been more apparent and the thickies would have begun to thin out. Alas, people were as stupid on the day I left as the day I started. A tale which will stick with me 'til the moment I die began near the end of a particularly exhausting, eventless day. I was a mere twenty minutes from being able to lock up and go home, the anticipation of doing so almost palpable. Like any respectable shop, we had a charity box. It was small and simply asked for the suggested donation of 20p in return for three sweets from its ratty cardboard bowels. Sounds like a fair deal, no? Well, one guy came up to the counter and stood around for a while. I did the usual routine - stopped what I was doing, went over and asked what he wanted.
"Nothing, I'm just going to get three sweets from your charity box." He explained, as if it were a personal revelation.
Fair enough, I thought (albeit a tad peeved that I'd had to stop what I was doing just to hear that.) So I see the guy put 50p into the box and resolutely return to my business.

A few minutes passed before I suddenly became aware that he was still there. Thoroughly creeped out, I asked if I could help him with something. His answer would shake the very fabric of existence.
"I'm waiting for my change."

In the end what made me leave, however, was not being mentally anesthetized on a daily basis by the cranial downfall of others, nor was it the long, lonely, loathsome hours or the pitifully pathetic pay. What made me leave was the realisation that I had come to rue the sun. In fact this animosity toward something which had previously always been a symbol of joy and relaxation was so intense that I found myself genuinely depressed at the sight of a cloudless sky. Why, you ask? And why indeed! The sun is a wondrous thing, is it not?

It comes down to a simple mathematical equation wherein the number of moronic customers who want cool, refreshing fresh fruit smoothies is directly proportionate to the level of sunshine - the beautiful summer sun revealed as nothing more than the solar precursor of a massive bloody queue.

• Written for a college assignment Dec '09