Picture a bustling metropolis with blocks towering over you on each side. Instead of apartments or parking complexes, they are built sky high with shelves. Some sit in the middle of the aisles imitating the Marina City buildings. Labeling and deals are jutted from shelf edges into the eyes of customers; advertisement billboards just inches apart. If you are unlucky enough to have hours in the afternoon, the passageways will fill with carts and people trudging their groceries through the crammed supermarket. Two cash registers isn’t enough to keep the lights green and traffic flowing during rush hour. You have to fix anything moved and replace everything taken. You have to be prepared to dodge and weave when running to backroom storage, there are no turn signals or stop signs. Thankfully, people aren’t going to be waving their middle finger and blaring horns until they get back on the actual streets. Shifts later in the day mean restocking while kneeling onto littered floor --- tomato slime, lettuce pressed into a film, crusty dirt --- the aisles shifting into dirty alleyways. Before closing, the clean up crew passes by as you scan the chip section one last time, gassing you with lavender Fabuloso cleaner. 

Somehow, a four hour shift had passed in what felt like one or two. This doesn’t have me scratching my head, because I know that this thought means autopilot had been turned off. Stocking a supermarket’s shelves is repetitive and the only way to find enjoyment is to sink deep into your mind. While opening boxes of Goya black bean cans, you were thinking about opening up the door to your bedroom. While stacking up 12 packs of Maruchan, you were fantasizing about stacking up a salami sandwich. All the stockers in this Mexican supermarket are sleep walking. Its a metropolis full of zombies. Our bodies learned to work independent of our thoughts. Swiping the price sticker gun across new merchandise --- I must’ve looked like a robot --- I envisioned myself playing a claw machine before setting the product down. 

Coming home to “How did it go?” was answered with “I was thinking about…” because that's all that happens when stocking. Boredom is what slows the clock; daydreaming is what speeds it back up. What if you worked a dull and repetitive job, how would you make it through a shift? You would find ways to make the most mundane of tasks engaging, that's what my coworkers and I did.