Confessions of a Sales Assistant: The Battle Against Automatism

Although it pains me to say it, I have been working in the retail industry for long enough now that I am no longer quite as incredulous at the level of contempt that the British public holds for sales assistants. There was a time, for instance, when the blatant discourtesy displayed by certain customers induced amazement as much as it did irritation - is she really discussing her private parts over the phone whilst handing me money for her daughter's birthday card? As time passed, this amazement gradually subsided and the irritation came to the fore - believe me, lady, I'd rather spend as little time taking your money from you as you'd like to take giving it to me, but I can only do so as fast as the cash register allows me to. Bitch. Nevertheless, as even more time passed, I found that I had become so accustomed to the occasional rude or disdainful customer that I could no longer even muster the energy to feel irritated by their behaviour. Meh. Now that I think about it, I suppose I had become institutionalised, for want of a better word. I had become the mindless automaton that those customers believed that I was all along. And yet today, in one fell swoop, one such customer changed everything.

No matter what anyone says, working in a shop on a Sunday is quite literally like working in a shop on any other day of the week. That is, except for the fact that on this particular day both the customer and the sales assistant alike exudes an air of lethargy that can only be attributed to our Western religio-cultural heritage. After all, Sunday is the day of rest; an idea that we all seem to cling to as some form of transcendental truth, whether or not we are religious. As such, on this one day each week, there exists a brief and unique unity between the sales assistant and the customer; a unity that pivots upon the simple and delightful fact that neither could give a shit. It is, therefore, especially easy to settle in to the familiar role of the mindless automaton on Sundays; resistant to even the most obnoxious customer - or so I had assumed. And then, with just an hour until close, a gaunt woman skulked up to my till and laid down a card without so much as a glance of acknowledgement. Whatever. I preceded to say "hello" as per usual. At the sound of my voice, the woman looked me straight in the eyes for a number of seconds with a bitter expression on her face before glancing down at the card she had just placed on the till. Ignoring this rather impertinent reaction, I scanned the card and asked for the required amount. This time she didn't even bother looking at me and simply thrust a ten-pound note in my general direction. Now, up until this point, nothing about the woman's poor attitude had surprised me, but what she did next was quite literally extraordinary: as soon as I took the money from her scaly hand, she turned her back towards me.

So there I was, counting out change for a customer who was facing in the opposite direction with folded arms and an angry grimace on her face. It must have been quite a sight to behold. And yet as horribly awkward as this whole exchange had been, in that bizarre moment, the sheer amazement that I used to feel came flooding back. In essence, this awful woman had reaffirmed my humanity in a way that I could not have imagined; she had unknowingly saved me from automatism. Having said that, I sincerely hope that she doesn't need any more cards in the near future.