For the first time, I feel like a man. Where I’m going is just the start, it’s new, exciting and I get paid for it.
This is new. Very different from school. Each morning I wake up; switch on, travel out, and then clock in. For the next fifty years I will do this five times a week with varying degrees of authority in a few different places. It tickles my silicone to take care of myself but it doesn’t matter how I feel, at least I get paid for it.
When I arrive I switch into business mode. I upload the days targets to my brain then hit the shop floor. There will be breaks of course, both bathroom and lunch, and at the end of the month I get paid for it.
From education to obligation, now the biggest part of my week is capitulation. To a boss, a computer screen, sales figures or the taxman. I’m recharged after the weekend. Powered up and feeling fresh. Ready to do my best and get paid for it.
The novelty is starting to wear thin. I’ve completed my training and now I’m autonomous. Statistics and averages, numbers and weights, I process information daily now. Calculating the best way maximize money for the business and for myself. Which is good, because I get paid for it.
It helps if you don’t think about it, I’ve found. On the whole people buy what they don’t need, and part of the job is to add to their false economy but it’s fine, because they want to spend money on it and I get paid for it.
I’m starting to go numb.
It’s a daily rhythm. In fact, it’s probably a monthly rhythm. Sell, lunch, sell, home five times a week followed by a weekend of drinking. I’m ambivalent to the hustle and bustle of the store now. My routine is targets, my habits in numbers. But it’s ok, at least I get paid for it.
My legs are growing cold.
Holidays are few and far between. Even the bank holidays are working days here. Numbers, stats, numbers, targets, numbers, managers shouting, numbers, selling things to people that don’t need them; just numbers.
On my lunch break I think, what is the point, really? Another fifty years of robotically filling columns, performance measured, tethered to this profession for my natural born life. Junk fuel consumed, I leave to go back to work, through the swing doors and into the shop floor. Ready to run the routine again. And get paid for it.
There is no escaping here. I hate that I’m getting paid for it.
Senior sales, is my new designation. I have had numerous new bots to train. All of this arose because I heartlessly and calculatingly sold a lot of merchandise to an elderly man who didn’t need it, and who didn’t know better. I got paid for it.
As time goes, I’ve learned to accept my fate. Accept that this is my destination. The 8 hours a day I work I am cold and emotionless with a heart encased in steel. Each week there is one sales meeting where figures have gone up and down. I’ve seen lesser beings, people who are still human, getting ejected for poor performance. There is leeway in the probationary period that allows for this. But none of it really matters. I still get paid for it.
Weekends are automatic – long lie, shop, pub, pass out, hangover, video games, iron then bed. Two days merge into one. Bzzzt. I recharge each day. I- I- I-
One Year and One Day
Back to work as senio-kkkkkzttttt. I have new tazzzzzzzzzzzzzzzk krew.
The excessive stress caused by unit 3401 has caused a memory error. Please re-load the operating system and reboot the machine.
One Year and Two Days
For the first time I feel like a
robot man. I get paid for it.