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Late July, 2002, after a day of work
at Heaton's department store, Kilkenny, Ireland, —
I've been working almost exclusively at the cash register last week and this week. It's the fuckin sale that all stores have at this time of year in Ireland. Jesus. Busy. And all this talk of the economy and tourism down and all—our shop is up considerably from last year. The net effect on me at this point is that I spend almost all day on the cash register. It's been "wrecking my head" as the Irish say.
I love to work the cash register sometimes—but sometimes is the key word. I've been on the fucker most of the day. My department is a wreck—and my head is just about got enough of the fuckin till. Jesus. It's been a sensory overstimulation that has made me act in ways against my will, gettin aggitated and impatient. Annoyed. Irritable.
While Heaton's is the least stressful job situation that I've ever had, I find that if I get stuck on the till then I am like a rat in a cage; my mind overloads. It's hard to get out of it. Takes time. Don't have time, stuck on the till all day.
Today the regional manager was in. I mentioned yeah I just don't have time. I didn't really intend to go above Trevor and I'm sure he knows that. Trevor just has his budget of weekly hours anyway; it's not his fault that we can't get the work done.
Anyway, Trevor mentioned it to me later that we'll have to sort that out about me being on the till so much. Well, yeah. I emphasized that I need to be able to do the work. And that's true. But In my mind—in the back of it where homeboy still just wants to chill and enjoy this life (not in the front part where the neurons are all fired off and are still shocking each other back and forth)—back there in my mind, I thought "yeah, get me off the till."
29 July, 2002; Kilkenny, Ireland
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