March 8–10, 2003 — Got to go to work

More than working in an office or at Booster Juice ever did, working at IKEA is showing me bits and pieces of lives I’ve never had that good a look at before. There are high school girls working as cashiers and giggling about the boys that gather shopping carts in the parking lot; other cashiers are picking out songs they’d like to hear at their wedding, and others are telling me that I should have learned my lesson by now and that relationships Just Don’t Work. There are managers who live for their jobs and restaurant workers taking night classes in computer programming with dreams of escape. People dedicated to something. And while I’ve no desire to dedicate myself to a company, to something with a logo and corporate colours and a headquarters an ocean or two away, I envy the people who at least seem to know what they’re working for, who seem to have goals.

I’m not entirely sure where I fit in at work. Most of the people I work with assume I go to school, that there’s a valid reason for my four-day absence each week. Those who know that I don’t have a reason just laugh and say I’m still young and that I’ll figure things out eventually.

At IKEA, I haven’t seen an example of the life I want to lead or found a goal to work towards. I think I might be happier if I stopped looking; I’ve never been able to keep a goal in focus for more than a few hours, anyway.

I’ve worked the same job for almost seven months. No raise yet; I was due to get one at my evaluation interview after six months, but the interview has yet to happen.

I’m feeling very tired of it. Of the fake conversations, of being “Greg Two”. (Greg Two is Amy’s name for the alternate version of me that maintains a cheerful tone and positive attitude. For example, I was joking about wallowing in bitterness after a cashier stole my pen; a manager overheard and said, “Greg, I could never picture you bitter. You’re too nice to be bitter.” This is Greg Two at his best.)

It can be very awkward. One of the cash managers is actively planning her wedding; a date has been set, and I’m learning all about how to reserve a hall for a wedding reception and how to select catering that will satisfy both sides of the extended family. Conversation turned to the songs that she wants to play at her wedding, and I suggested that she limit the list to songs we hear at IKEA. She laughed and asked me if I had a girlfriend, probably wondering if I’d found someone to suffer through my bad jokes and eccentricities for more than a few minutes at a time; I told her that I was currently unaffiliated and that I’d made some mistakes.

She stopped what she was doing, looked at me, and said, “The next girl will be the one you marry. Trust me.”

I don’t remember what I said after that. It’s the sort of moment that makes me sad for reasons I’m unsure of and leaves me without the smallest idea as to how I’m supposed to react.

There have been a lot of these moments lately.

And besides all of that, I’m making enough money doing freelance design and programming work to support myself, and I don’t know what city I will be living in after April 30.

All of this to say, I guess, that I might not be a returns clerk for much longer.