The Arithmetic of Worth

On Monday I awoke to find the ground polluted by a layer of suspiciously white snow. I welcomed it as I would an uninvited guest at a party I had no personal desire to attend, yet a party that I had the unfortunate obligation to endure. I didn’t know of the precipitation’s existence until I ascended the stairs to the main floor of the small house in which I had currently lodged. I had been peacefully unaware as I slept, and even as I woke I harboured a naive hope for a meaningful day. But the snow made everything difficult. First, rather than retreating back to the ignorant warmth of my bedroom, I had to find the strength to continue with my initial plans for the day. Every single subsequent action required a level of effort I was scarcely equal to. I made my way through my morning routine with little further incident - save a poor shave and a resultant small cut on the right side of my chin - and left the house.

The roads were treacherous at best. If I were a man of more experience, I may appreciate the safety of our roads compared to foreign dangers, like the threat of robbery on the roads of South America or something. I, however, have only ice to combat on my drive to work. On this particular Monday, I travelled slowly. The pace of the drive provided an ample allowance of time, with which I began to contemplate the danger of my journey. I was sure it was possible to both provide a “danger value” to represent the level of peril, and a “reward value” for the ultimate incentive for the initial risk. In my substitution of my best estimates of these values, I provided a moderate amount of peril, and a very small reward ranking. I completed this basic algebra and, as I drove onwards through the snow, I proved mathematically how absurd it was that I should be doing that exact action at that exact moment.

I pulled into the parking lot of the great mall in which I earned my mediocre-at-best living. I twisted the ignition back towards me as though I could turn back time through a simple reverse movement. My vehicle shuddered as fuel and spark ceased to travel through its mechanical heart. The parking lot seemed different today; the lines indicating how one should park were invisible and people had parked their cars however they saw fit – usually in a manner that closest resembled the vehicles nearest to them. Looking around the lot, I felt like I was able to determine the rough order in which the cars arrived, as they were clustered together in space and in their best estimations of the order prescribed by the hidden paint.

There is something utterly terrible about malls. ‘This invention,’ I mused, ‘has got to be up there with man’s worst. I mean, it seems to me comparable to atomic weaponry, the guillotine, and Rohypnol.’ This thought fermented within as I entered the mall and walked towards the clothing store at which I worked. I arrived at the door and with an abrupt sliding motion I pushed the gate like door to the side and entered. The store was a large, bright room. The walls were primarily white, with splashes of red and large posters of women in compromised positions adorning the perimeter. The wares themselves were overpriced and soon to be dated. I worked here because of friendship, a basic need of money – or at least the appearance of having a job – and because I was comfortable. Perhaps this feeling of comfort is part of the problem with malls. Perhaps comfort, along with base consumerism and obvious capitalist exploitation, contributed to the nagging feeling of disgust I harbour as I experience any shopping centre. I didn’t have much time to reflect on this growing feeling before I was pulled back into the conscious world we all share.

“Morning, Jacob,” Mary said. Mary was about my age, which was on the edge of too old to be still working a job like that, and a somewhat dark person. She dyed her hair black and wore tattoos down her arms in what seemed to be an expression of both defiance and independence.

“Good morning!” I replied in a voice that hardly sounded to me like my own. Working retail had this long term effect on me of creating an entirely different and false costume I could, and usually did, wear. My voice was altered into one of constant cheer and welcoming. I hated it.

“How’re you, Mary?” I asked as I walked past. This gesture of asking and walking was part of my fake persona. “Do I care how she is?” I wondered. I hoped I did. I sincerely hoped that I was concerned about her current situation, but I was scared that I was only interested in my own wellbeing. Every life is in itself its own personal tragedy. It’s hard to recognise anyone else as anything except somebody in relation to yourself. I don’t think I heard Mary’s response to my question.

The store possessed a strange quality in the morning. The doors had not yet been opened and the music intended and designed to facilitate the most amount of monetary exchange had not yet been turned on. The store was empty and silent as I passed from the front desk to the back room. I worked in the stock room, which in essence was little more than a closet that provided triple duty as stock room, break room, and storage. The room was entered from the sales floor through a large mirrored doorway into a small cube like area. The floor was tiled in red, white, and dirt. I took an immediate left and squeezed myself through the tiny passage way made up by shelves of sweaters on my left and stacked bins of rolled clothing on my right. I raised my right hand and pressed the small buttons on the time clock until I had typed out my employee number. I then placed my hand down on the indicated space and had my palm read as my password. The novelty of this futuristic device had long worn off, and was replaced by the fear of germs. Beside the time clock sat a small bottle of hand sanitizer.

This is what it had come down to. I was at work, and timed in. One minute had passed. I had earned fifteen cents. I was certain that minute was worth more than fifteen cents, but somebody somewhere had done their arithmetic and discovered the value of my time that we could apparently both agree upon. It was beyond depressing. It seemed impossible for there to be a worse feeling than this feeling of worthlessness coupled with the impending eight hours and twenty nine minutes of servitude. I leaned back against the wall, closed my eyes, and sighed. I felt so crestfallen, and, although my situation not so unusual, I felt much like a martyr. I brought my hands up to my face and pushed my glasses up on to my forehead. I began rubbing my eyes strongly with my hands. I pulled my hands away and took a deep breath. I moved towards the computer and sat down in front of it. I searched within and found the resolve I needed. ‘This will not be,’ I thought, ‘the tragedy of my life.’ I reached forward and turned the computer on as the snow continued to pervert the streets outside.