The Malliest Mall Of Them All

First I worked in this place in the Food Court that sold French fries and pretzels. My boss was a Vietnamese guy who called himself Mike. Then I moved down another floor and worked at this place that sold nothing but total shit --no vision, none whatsoever: Rattling plastic frogs that croaked and paddled about in a tank of water, incense, big, hideous rugs with pictures of polar bears and lions and Bob Marley, and lousy Green Bay Packers stuff. Then it was on to a shell place where honest to God I once worked an eight-hour shift and never had one person set foot in the door, not even any of the Japanese or the old people from South Dakota. All day long I had to listen to CDs that had like harps and the sounds of waves and some other irritating noise that I think was supposed to be the shrieking of whales but that mostly sounded like seals being clubbed to death. That got fucking old in a hurry so I got a job at a place that sold nothing but lava lamps and Star Wars shit and Bill Clinton masks. Then there was a candle place that reeked so bad that I couldn't get through the day without guzzling an entire bottle of Nyquil and sneaking one-hitters in the bathroom.

I did have some standards, I guess. I never worked at the NASCAR place.

I eventually ended up in a cheesy little religious kiosk where I sat there on a stool and did crossword puzzles and read Heavy Metal magazines while the Jesus plaques, crosses, and Bible verse bookmarks gathered dust. You know you're working a shit job when the first thing on your checklist of responsibilities is "dust merchandise."

Even the guy who worked the sausage-and-cheese kiosk got more chicks to stop and talk to him, and the stooge who ran the place told me I couldn’t talk on my cell phone, drink Mountain Dew, or wear my Chuck Taylors.

That was pretty much my “fuck this” retail moment. I'm a graphic designer now.