I write this to preserve the memory of the grocery store I worked at and the many people who educated me with patience and kindness during those long months in the summer of 2024. It is dedicated to their tireless work, feeding and serving the people of Belton, Texas. 

Interview

The job I applied for was known as the cross-functional team (CFT). The work involved shifting from department to department, meeting new people and learning new tasks, sometimes daily. It paid $16/hr, which I later found was the same as a new cashier. The interview process was simple enough and consisted of an online recording and two in-person meetings, the first with a woman who would become my “boss” if I ever truly had one, and the second with the man responsible for the whole store. My meeting with him was the final hurdle I had to jump before I could land the job and my first face-to-face with a representative of capital. 

In the waiting room prior to my final interview, I started a conversation with a man who said that he had worked here a few years ago and left to work at Tesla’s “Gigafactory.” Said factory had just fired 2,700 workers and, unfortunately, he was amongst them—a tragic and all too common story. By the time he finished telling it, the boss arrived for his first interview: mine. As we began, he pressed me to retell the man’s story. His response was nothing short of cruel. The boss made an example of him – reminding me that actions have consequences and telling me that he valued loyalty and that the man should have never left his grocery store. I will never forget when he told me, with his bravado-laden tone, that the man’s chances of being rehired were “slim to none.”  His cold-heartedness was palpable. 

Service

This was my first true job at the grocery store. On my first day I was mentored by a 17-year-old who had started just a month before myself. He treated me well and I learned the flow of the work in those precious first hours on the job from him. 

Service is situated at the front of the store and includes cashiers, baggers/cart retrievers and a host of managers. I was the former—a bagger. Bagging is a tedious and fast paced job that stretches for hours on end.  The monotony and repetition makes obvious the astronomical mass and variety of groceries required to satisfy the American hunger. Still, it is a simple enough task: sorting groceries into plastic or paper or reusable bags. Baggers quickly learn to “aim for five” items per bag, check the “Bottom Of Basket” and to act friendly towards customers. Regardless of attempts at geniality, bagging is mentally unstimulating. After a long shift, as the night draws near, one has to quiet the persistent, hypnotic drone from the rhythmic beeping of scanned products before being allowed to rest. 

Carryouts offer a brief escape from the tedium. Usually this means accompanying an elderly person and helping transport their groceries to their cars. I always enjoy this– especially the fact that I often end up being paid by the minute just to be regaled with a story. However, the main retreat from a full day of bagging is the promise that, depending on traffic, baggers will periodically be sent outside into the parking lot to return carts. This work is much more physically straining and on especially hot days, painful. The hot metal and plastic shopping carts are stacked eight long and require a black metal hook and rope to collect them all at once. Baggers are sent to gather around 40 of these carts and are expected to accomplish this in under 30 minutes, all while having to weave around cars in the parking lot. It is not an enviable position, especially on scorching days, which Texas often provides in June and July. That said, on temperate days retrieving carts can be a pleasant reprieve from the near constant bagging and pesky micromanagement inside. 

Management, particularly in the service department, is entirely unlikable. Their job is to keep their mostly underaged baggers focused, control the flow of checked out products, and handle customer requests. Service is the only department in the store where one must be granted permission to go on break. The sole department that has miniature managers whose pathetic function is to time your 15 minute break. One of these micromanagers was over 30 minutes late to grant me my contracted break and was later bold enough to ask why I was three minutes late in returning from it. In dealing with this breed, I have learned that a stoic but stubborn refusal to concede any wrongdoing is satisfactory. They feed on admission of guilt. 

Dairy

My first day working as a bagger, I was scheduled for six hours. At the fifth hour, a trio of upper managers pulled me aside and urged me to work another six hours with Dairy. As it was my first day, I felt compelled to show my willingness to be truly “cross functional.” I accepted,  they  handed me a box cutter,  and I was promptly shoved to the back of the store. The responsibilities I was assigned in Dairy were straightforward: I was to unbox and stock items from “U-boats” that are stacked high with goods ranging from gallon teas and yogurts, to eggs, butters, and pastries. The difficulty with Dairy, as in other departments where stocking is necessary, is that a novice will have no clue where on the shelf products need to be stocked. Normally, this would have made my work much more difficult, but I was aided by someone with over 10 years experience. He had the whole store mapped out in his mind. He helped me every time I worked in Dairy and I grew very fond of him;  I even began to like the work itself. It was a dull but constant task, and I was never micromanaged. I was content enough to work an 8 hour shift in Dairy on July 4th. 

Curbside

Curbside was by far the most bizarre department I worked in.  My first impression was that it was easy. To excel in Curbside, you are handed a store owned phone which has an app that allows one to accept online orders. Groceries are arranged on movable shelves, organized by letters and numbers, and stored inside of three main rooms:one room for dry and bulk, one for cold, and one for frozen goods. It is the “curbies” task to accept an order, gather the ingredients from these three stocked rooms, and transport the cart to the customer waiting outside in their vehicle. The entire time, from acceptance of an order to final delivery, is monitored and displayed on big televisions in the middle room. This screen is in place to encourage speedy delivery(the goal of every order being sub-five minutes) and lends itself to a dystopia of quotas and speed. I have no doubt that at other stores, the management hounds the curbies for slow deliveries; however, much to my surprise, I never experienced or witnessed any such domineering. Only in Service can one expect to work for such dutiful managers.

In order to properly explain the work done at Curbside, it is essential to write that a curbie’s job mandates that they swiftly move from rooms of ~70 degrees Fahrenheit (bulk/dry), ~35 degrees Fahrenheit (cool), ~0 degrees Fahrenheit (frozen), and ~100 degrees Fahrenheit (outside). I believe these rapid temperature shifts are not conducive to long term health. There is research done to indicate rapid temperature changes from day to day have a negative health impact on the respiratory and cardiovascular systems. Working in Curbside I would consistently clock out with headaches and tiredness, despite the work itself being easy enough. Regarding the freezer, I note that even with the store’s recommended “no-slip” shoes on, I nearly slipped about a dozen times while moving around the freezer. Finally it is worth mentioning that the majority of those working as curbies were 20 years or younger and with a starting pay of $12.50/hr that is equivalent to a starting bagger. 

Seafood

For just a few days I had the privilege of becoming a fishmonger. The job necessitated a change in uniform which distinguished fishmongers from other workers. My primary task was to assemble shrimp in cocktail trays for the store; each tray containing 16 shrimp, a lemon slice and a cup of cocktail sauce. Besides this, I was expected to provide service to customers who could request various types and quantities of fish and shellfish. I soon learned to operate the scale, print out receipts, and wrap differing weights of seafood properly.

The nature of the work in Seafood allows for a unique amount of fraternization between the fishmongers. I naturally participated in these conversations, in large part because of the similarity between myself and my two coworkers. All three of us were the same age and had graduated from the same highschool. I remember a particular conversation where one of my compatriots confided in me their desire to study medicine. They explained that their attempts were frustrated by a lack of money for tuition and undiagnosed ADHD. Both his father and grandfather had worked at the grocery store, so instead of going to school he was expected to follow in their footsteps. There were other employees like myself in departments such as sub-five Service and Curbside. Some I recognized and knew from high school; but there was never time to truly connect with them like I could in Seafood. I now know that a few attend university during the fall and spring. However, by my estimation, the majority had been working the whole time since graduating from highschool. It was a grounding feeling, recognizing my peers, and how they had been bonded for years in a job that I loathe to return to. 

Produce

As much as I enjoyed my time as a fishmonger, my cross-functional position required that I switch departments again, this time to Produce. The work expected in Produce was a mix of stacking and stocking. I was made to stock thousands of strawberries and grapes, making the displays presentable for the endless crowds of customers. I again operated a “U-boat” cart that I would stack tall with boxes full of fresh produce and drag out to begin the stocking process. The work was made more difficult by the sheer quantity of boxes. The banana boxes were 40 lbs each and I was expected to place 10 per cart for shelving. Lugging roughly 400 lbs of banana boxes, all shipped from Central America by the same company and sold in varying degrees of ripeness, it fell upon me to sort the shades of green as I was stocking—green on the bottom shelf and ripe at the top. This was by far the most physically demanding work I had to do at the store. With time, and the helpful guidance of my coworkers, I became rather proficient at unboxing and unloading these bananas, but it was never enough.  Before this job, I could never have comprehended the insatiable appetite that the American people have for berries and bananas. I estimate that 300 lbs of bananas were purchased per hour. Thus, I was constantly busy like a drone, stacking boxes and bringing them to the shelves. I would return home in agony after prolonged banana-loading shifts and found comfort in painkillers. I take solace in not working for Produce during the Fall season. It was revealed to me that the expectation then is to lift and stock the endless and hefty pumpkins the American public craves for seasonal decor. 

Besides the work, the culture of the Produce Department was certainly unique. There wasn’t much time to talk; it was nothing like Seafood. Even still, I got a taste of it. The produce workers had a curious obsession with calling one another “bubba.” To the extent that they had a custom license plate with this moniker. Ultimately, my only genuine critique of this department is that the manager in charge was often found sitting in his chair in the back. It seemed his job was simply to tell people, like me, to work in a specific section of produce. I did not feel any shared burden with him, something I would feel in virtually every other department.

Custodian

My first day working as a janitor I was shadowing someone I did not initially recognize; but would later learn that we had both gone to the same high school. What began as a confusing morning quickly turned into an enjoyable shift. The two of us split the work typically meant for one and were able to talk. I learned that they were also in cross-function and that he’d been working as such for over two years—since he graduated from highschool. He told me that this was his second job. His first was at a local movie theater, where he worked until 2 a.m. most nights before having to get up at 4 a.m. for soccer practice. Consequently, he slept as much as he could during his classes.  He was the first cross functional employee I had the chance to truly talk with. He told me his favorite department to work at was Texas Backyard, where he watered plants and assembled outdoor grills. Besides work, he expressed his desire to become an online entrepreneur, buying low and selling high. He assured me that he was familiar with this trade because of a family friend who had succeeded with it. He is currently working to save for his dream business and I wish him the best in this future endeavor.

Over the course of eight hours he taught me the basics of custodial work. There was a loose schedule of assignments expected of a custodian. Working the 10 a.m. to 6 p.m. shift, for example, included taking out the trash for every department, restocking plastic gloves and hairnets, cleaning counters, mopping and sweeping floors, picking up spills, and cleaning the public restrooms. The work was mostly easy and janitors were rarely disturbed by managers, other employees, or customers(barring of course the product spills that happen regularly). As a janitor, toting cleaning carts  around the store, I discovered people’s aversion to prolonged gazes. The presence of a janitor created, in some, a sense of discomfort and disgust, pity for the worker, and personal guilt. There was a tacit disgust for my janitorial work that repulsed management and customer questions, as if I was the most lowly of creatures to accept my $16/hr to wash the ground that they walk on. My job was to clean, disinfect, and remove odorous and sometimes disgusting messes; however, the work was never as bad as I expected it to be. Furthermore, since no one dares to enter into a bathroom under maintenance, I was able to take my time and milk the clock. It took about 30 minutes per bathroom and with two sets of men’s and women’s, I could make an easy $32 just scrubbing toilets and mopping floors.

As easy as my first day was, my next day was an 8 hour shift from 4 a.m. to 1 p.m. It was surreal and exhausting to “deep clean” the bathrooms at 4 AM. Spraying down every inch of a public restroom and falling on my hands and knees to scrub really made me think about what matters most. The work enlightened me, and I’m grateful for it. During this 8 hour shift, I got to know another janitor who had been working for a little less than 2 years at the grocery store. She was a tremendous help to me. She was a quiet and kind woman who had a son and daughter around my age and an infatuation with cats. She once told me about  discovering one of her cats was mildly allergic to seafood. The story helped distract us from the fact we had just lifted an immensely heavy trash bag stuffed full of  rotten fish into the compressor; the bag had split and spilled the slimy contents all over us. Even the sturdiest of bags would rip open under the force of 100 lbs of rotten meats. It was impossible for me to raise those greasy bags into the compactor alone, so I couldn’t help but have a deep appreciation for this woman. I hope in my absence someone else is there to help lessen  this burden for her. I recall another morning when we were emptying the overflowing trash from the outside gas station. She was inspired by a Trump 2024 bumper sticker to admit that, in her whole life, she had never voted. She didn’t see the point. She felt that she had no say, no real power, in any of it. I didn’t disagree. How could I when I myself am apprehensive? This woman was an unsung pillar of my hometown I would have never met if I hadn’t been scrubbing the floor of a public bathroom at 4 in the morning. These shifts that were exhausting to me were a fact of life for her. It is people like her whose voices, whose votes, should matter the most; it deeply frustrates me to know that they don’t. She understands as well as anyone that no matter which politician or billionaire is elected, nothing will change; she will still be scrubbing toilets and taking out the trash. 

Towards the end of the summer I often worked as a janitor and operated under the same schedule of cleaning, interrupted only by the odd spill of eggs, wine, nail polish, or vinegar. The hardest day I ever had at the store however began one Wednesday morning when I was informed I would be cleaning the debris out from under every aisle of the store. I was given a yard long squeegee and knee pads. I spent seven hours on my hands and knees meticulously clearing dust and dirt, collecting glass shards, spilled pasta, dog food, and other varieties of trash. My work liberating  garbage from the under-aisle sarcophagi resulted in errant customer stares one would give either to an insect or a charity case. That day, no one bothered me because no one wanted to be me. By the 4th hour, my knees and elbows were sore, I had gone through too many plastic gloves and the palms of my hands were black with dirt. I was cursing everything , shouting at the dusty floor inches from my face. I didn’t care about the money, or the experience, I just wanted it to end.  When I was halfway done, I met an older lady I had been filling in for. She graciously thanked me for my work and lamented that, after 15 years of cleaning on her hands and knees, she could no longer do it. As much as the work sucked, I realized I wanted to finish it properly. How could I halfass this work? My knees were killing me and I was beyond humiliated and dirty. But if not me then it would be her. I finished the day but my body ached for two days after. 

There were other disturbing realities of older workers expected to do difficult manual labor for the store. I quickly became friends with a 79 year old immigrant from Monterrey, Mexico who was working as a janitor. He struggled hearing but was sharp witted and often mimicked the fictional Vito Corleone from The Godfather. His biggest grievance with the store was that he was often scheduled to work during his medically necessary eating times. As much as I enjoyed his lighthearted presence, I wish that he did not have to work so hard at his age. For comparison, the owner, who is 86 years old, enjoys yachts, and private jets. This janitor was having to live with his daughter because of a devastating tornado that had swept through Bell county in May. 

Conclusion

Like with any job, there are good days and bad days, cherished aspects and frustrating ones. As of writing, I am currently on educational leave and am expected to return in December. I must admit that I am not looking forward to my return.  Still, I remember my experience more positively than I imagined I would. Ultimately, I’m grateful for these experiences and the people who treated me with kindness, love, and hospitality. They accepted me as a coworker and some, I hope, as a friend.