A Job’s Worth Doing
The fluorescent lights of “Bargain Bonanza” hummed a monotonous tune, a soundtrack to Sandy’s misery. Stacking shelves of discounted pasta sauces wasn’t precisely the dream she’d envisioned after acing her A-Levels. She was qualified to be a teaching assistant, had even volunteered in a primary school during her gap year, but life, as it often did, had thrown a curveball.
Now, five years later, she was stuck in a retail purgatory. The repetitive tasks were mind-numbing, but it was the subtle, insidious condescension of some of her colleagues that truly eroded her confidence.
“Sandy, love, can you reach that top shelf for me?” Remmy, her supervisor, would ask, her voice dripping with saccharine sweetness. Then, in the same breath, she’d add, “You’re so good at that, dear. “Not everyone can reach so high?”
It wasn’t the question itself, but the tone it conveyed. The unspoken implication: Sandy, tall and seemingly clumsy, was only good for manual labour.
Then there was James, the stockroom guy, a walking, talking embodiment of casual sexism. He’d often quiz her on trivia, always with a smirk. “Alright, Amelia, quick question. What’s the capital of Peru?” When she correctly answered Lima, he’d feign surprise. “Wow! You know that? I wouldn’t have guessed.”
At first, she’d brushed it off. Friendly banter, she’d told herself. But as she got older, the barbs stung more. She saw the sideways glances, the barely concealed eyerolls when she suggested a more efficient way to organise the stockroom, the way they talked at her rather than to her. She was just Sandy from Bargain Bonanza, the tall, slightly awkward girl who stacked shelves. Nothing more.
The constant belittling had eroded her confidence. She began to doubt herself, second-guessing her contributions, and shrinking under the weight of their expectations. The vibrant, enthusiastic girl who had once dreamed of shaping young minds was slowly being extinguished.
One particularly awful Tuesday, Remmy asked her to price-check a whole pallet of dented cans of baked beans. As Sandy meticulously scanned each can, James sauntered over, chewing gum.
“So, Sandy,” he drawled, “still working on those beans? You’re going to be here all day, love? He chuckled, and Remmy joined in, the sound grating on Sandy’s nerves.
Something snapped. A surge of anger, long suppressed, finally bubbled to the surface. She straightened up, placing the scanner firmly on the pallet.
“James,” she said, her voice surprisingly steady, “I’m thinking of applying for a job as a teaching assistant at the local primary school. You know, helping kids learn and grow.”
James’s jaw dropped, his gum-chewing ceasing abruptly. Remmy’s smile faltered.
“A teaching assistant?” James spluttered. “But… you… You work here.”
“Yes, I do,” Sandy replied, her gaze fixed on him. “And I’m qualified for other things too. I have A-Levels, I volunteered in a school, and I happen to think I’d be quite good at it.”
A silence hung in the air, thick with unspoken assumptions and shattered expectations.
Sandy continued, her voice gaining strength. “But you know what? Even if I just stacked shelves for the rest of my life, it wouldn’t give you the right to treat me like I’m stupid. I’m tired of the patronising tone, the constant doubt, the feeling that I don’t matter.”
She took a deep breath, the air suddenly feeling lighter. “So, James, Remmy, with all due respect, you can both stick your dented cans where the sun doesn’t shine.”
She turned and walked away, leaving them speechless amidst the towering stacks of discounted goods. As she headed to the break room, she felt a tremor of fear – what if she messed up the interview? What if she wasn’t good enough? But overriding the fear was a powerful, exhilarating sense of liberation.
That day, Sandy didn’t just price-check baked beans. She priced-checked her worth. She finally realised that her value wasn’t defined by her job title or the assumptions of her colleagues. She was more than just the tall girl who stacked shelves. She was Sandy, and she mattered. And she was finally ready to prove it. She grabbed the phone hidden in her bag and dialled the number for the local primary school, a smile playing on her lips.
It was time to find a place where potential wasn’t ignored, but nurtured, just like she planned to cultivate young minds. The fluorescent lights of Bargain Bonanza still hummed, but for the first time, Sandy didn’t hear their monotonous drone. She heard a hopeful melody, a tune she had composed herself.
Thank You for Reading
Deborah C. Langley
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