“for everyone who’s ever been told to smile through shrinkage”

They dressed me in khaki
and handed me a lanyard like it meant something—
a laminated badge of honor
for surviving capitalism’s front lines.

Management calls it “CARE,”
“SELL,” or “SHOVE”—
whatever acronym sounds nicest
when asking strangers to buy crap they don’t need.
Translation:
“Yes, I know you’re just here for gum,
and yes, I hate this more than you do,
but it’s upsell or find a new job.”

Break room therapy:
fifteen minutes,
barely enough time to shovel
a scalding cardboard bowl of ramen
into your pie hole—
but plenty of time
for rent-anxiety to boil it back up,
scalding you for the second time.
The cup says “hot,”
but it’s the dread that really burns.

Theft walks in like it owns the place—
and often walks out with it.
Beer bandits, candy pirates,
two-liter rebels with shaky hands
and no plans past the parking lot.
I give chase once—just once—
until the glint of a dropped knife
teaches me that shrinkage is cheaper than trauma.

The registers freeze mid-rush,
the receipt paper runs dry,
and my break
has been rescheduled
to “never.”

Customers speak in riddles,
like, “I saw it here last week,”
or “Your website said it was $2.99,”
or my favorite:
“Do you work here?”
No, I just enjoy loitering near end caps
in color-coordinated name tags.

And yet—
I clock in.
Again.
Not for the thrill.
Not for the dreams.
But because rent doesn’t care
that I had to explain
why a honey packet isn’t for tea.