Wilting, Part II
The van wasn’t the only thing giving me grief. I just didn’t realize how depressing my job would be. The combination of my crabby coworker, drunk boss, sourpuss floral arranger, and my job requirements that made me dread the day ahead. Probably the most depressing part of the job was all the old and dead people I was forced to encounter. During one particular delivery, I had to take flowers to a retirement home. I walked through the automatic double doors and searched around for a receptionist. While doing so, I found many lonely and lined faces, senior citizens shuffling around with their walkers, some napping in their chairs, others medicated in front of television sets. I brought the flowers to the receptionist and then as I was walking out, a lady raised her frail hand to get my attention. She sat up from the faded blue couch she was sitting in and I looked over to her. She asked in a weak yet hopeful voice, “Do you have anything for me?” I felt my heart crack a little bit. I regretfully replied, “No, ma’am, I’m sorry.” She nodded, smiled a weak smile and then settled back into the faded couch. I exited the double doors with watery eyes.
I had never seen a dead person until I had to deliver flowers to the funeral home. The idea of being so close to a lifeless body freaked me out. It didn’t help when Mandy mentioned that the funeral home employees liked to play pranks on us. I was already nervous enough hanging out in a building full of dead and drained people. Now I had to worry about a bunch of douche bags popping out of closed coffins or sneaking limbs into the company van. Fortunately, they never did. I wasn’t employed long enough to give them a chance. Not only did I have to deliver flowers to open caskets but I also had to go to the funerals themselves and wait around outside until the service inside was over. Then, while mourners were packing into their cars to drive to the gravesite, Mandy and I had to pack all the flower arrangements back into the van and then rush to the gravesite before everyone else got there so we could set up the arrangements around the grave, making it presentable by the time the families arrived. Most of the time, we only had mere minutes to pull it off. It was incredibly stressful.
I couldn’t take this anymore. Everywhere I turned I found depression. Depression at the workplace. Depression at the delivery zones. I found depression within myself because I despised the job but at the same time I didn’t want to be a quitter. I was conflicted and confused. I had to find a way out of my situation but if I did, my parents would be disappointed with me. My parents took on factory jobs because they had a limited education. They didn’t like what they did but it was their only choice and they did it because they had to support my sister and me. And I felt like a spoiled brat for wanted to get out of the florist job, a job that I hadn’t even had a month. Maybe I just needed to get used to the physical labor and mental anguish? Maybe I could befriend these women? No, I couldn’t do any of that. I was only lying to myself, trying to feel better about a bad situation. In my heart, I knew this wasn’t for me.
My mother came home from work one day to find me slumped on the couch. I had gotten home from the florist shop a few hours before. My jeans were dirtied and rolled up to my knees. Each aching foot was plunged into a large plastic bowl filled with steaming water and Epsom salt. My mom laughed at the site of me. She put down her purse and sat on the couch across from me, her auburn hair deflated by work, her face shiny from the hot factory. Her makeup had faded and her thin eyebrows were furrowed with exhaustion. I was beginning to understand how she felt every day.
“I really hate my job,” I said to her sheepishly.
“I know,” she responded, the words exhaling from her lips without a trace of sympathy.
“I want to quit.”
“We all have to do things we don’t want to do.”
That was her typical response to any negativity I ever expressed to her. That’s life. Tough luck. That’s what you get. Oh well. We all have to do things we don’t want to do. But that couldn’t be all. Surely she wouldn’t want her son to suffer like this. I worked out a plan in my head. My mind raced to find a solution. Then it clicked.
“What if I find another job?”
“Good luck with that!”
“But, if I do, can I quite this one?”
“Sure, as long as you can guarantee a new one first.”
This was my way out. From that day forward, I fervently went through the classifieds, collected stacks of job applications and asked around about possible employee positions.
I had been fantasizing about quitting the florist for several days, especially on the days when I found myself elbow deep in cemetery dirt cleaning off dead flowers from graves and replacing them with fresh ones. The hot southern sun beat down on me, my face smeared with dirt and sweat. I had had enough. I couldn’t go on working in an environment of smoke and stress. One of those job applications had to work out. It just had to.
Fortunately, all the days of job hunting paid off. The manager of the drugstore in town had reviewed my application and wanted to speak to me. The interview went great. I was charming and funny and desperately trying to be as hirable as possible to escape from rose-colored hell. I suppose I was either a good choice for the job or maybe she just saw the desperation in my eyes because she said she’d be happy to hire me. And she’d never know how happy that made me. Now, the other tough part was quitting. As much as I hated the place, I was nervous to confront my soot-stained boss.
A few days later, I found myself in the company van with Mandy and she was once again yelling, “ You’re going to have to eventually learn the layout of this city!” By that time, I had already decided to quit that day so I thought to myself, “That’s what you think, you human exhaust pipe!” Puffs of gray smoke escaped her flaring nostrils and curled lips as she went off on me, ash from her cigarette trailing her hands as she gestured. Screw this. At the end of my shift, I went up to Rebecca and told her I needed to speak with her. In between puffs of her cigarette, she said, “You aren’t happy here.” I politely said no and that I would like to end my employment with her. I then quickly offered a two weeks notice but she told me that wouldn’t be necessary. She then blew a puff of smoke in my direction.&n
bsp; I took that as my dismissal. Thanks a lot. The next day I woke up and was overjoyed with the realization that I would not have to walk into a building that housed carcinoma and crappy attitudes.
I suppose we all have our “worst job ever” stories. And although it wasn’t the best experience of my life, I think I did learn something from it. I learned a bit more about people and life and how neither are as great as we hope for. I suppose if I had to get my feet wet in the working world, I’m glad they got a little scalded. It definitely helped make every job after Young’s Florist seem so much better in comparison. For instance, I thoroughly enjoyed my employment with the drugstore. After the florist, I thought of my parents and how their jobs are probably twice as hard as mine was and just knowing what they have to endure daily makes me appreciate them so much more. Because I had a taste of how much they have had to struggle to take care of me, experienced that hard work myself with my rough hands and aching back, it encouraged me to pursue my education further than they did so that hopefully in the future, I’ll obtain a more profitable position that won’t be as physically demanding. I admire them for sticking it out although they don’t like what they do. And I tried to sick it out as well but I’m just not that strong. And maybe, most importantly, I just refuse to accept that things have to suck. I know sometimes situations are beyond our control but I took control of my situation and my job and found one that was much less stressful. I realized that no job, no relationship, no experience is worth it if you find yourself wilting.