Cancerous Employment

How could I forget how toxic the mall is?  The miasma of capitalist nihilism.  The poisonous classism of the upper-middle class against the working-class goons who sell them their gewgaws.  The screaming children.  The way the mall security stares askance at any person of color.  The suspicious predominance of Spanish-speakers in the janitorial staff.  The crushing desperation of so many of the workers.  That shit is living death.  How did I forget?

It is, after all, one of the major reasons I quit that job in the first place.

I’ve grown un-accustomed to living my life with heavy shielding.  I like being open, clued in, with one hand on the heartbeat of the world. It’s not safe to be that way in the mall.  It’s like being a plague doctor with an immune disorder: you’re tempting Death.

I work in two different kiosks for the company, in two different malls.  The smaller, less prosperous of the malls is easier to manage: I picked out a set of four matching steel rings and borrowed “modeled” them all day, using them to regulate my in/out like a gas masks.  It worked fine, with minimal effort. 

The larger of the two malls, however, was more of a problem: more prosperous, with a more “affluent” (higher pre-tax income, overextended on debts and a lifestyle they can’t pay in the post-crash economy) and psychically toxic clientele, more in need of free therapy in the form of abusing retail employees and jewelry to reinforce their crumbling middle-class racial and gender identities.  Keeping that space clear enough for me to work without setting anyone on fire required a daily application of a pentagram banishing rite.  Yeah, that’s right, I had to go back to a banishing rite. I hate banishing; I would much rather invoke, conjure, or tune.  And it worked.  Barely.

I’ve made it through, now.  Tuesday was my last shift until I need to work over my next break.  And don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful to them for giving me the opportunity to make rent.  I love having a roof over my head.  But I need to find a new source of greenbacks: one where I’m not selling and fixing slave-made baubles for petty asshats.

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One response to “Cancerous Employment

  1. Pingback: Empathy and Other Psychic Senses | Journey Through The Obsidian Dream

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