Something to consider when reading/listening: Can a mundane job be enjoyable if you approach it with the right attitude?

“Good afternoon sir, my name is Emma. How may I help you today? 

“Do you have photo ID, sir? Good, good, you’ve come prepared.

“Now, I do have to inform you… you are currently taking part in an exciting new trial. That’s right. Now, as you may be aware…sorry sir, this will only take two minutes… as you may be aware, ok, we did away with queuing about three years ago, didn’t we? 

“But… well…we’ve conducted a survey, and it suggests, just suggests, it’s just an indication, that customers would in fact prefer to stand in line rather than sit and wait. So this is just a trial but we are reintroducing a standing queue for a limited time only. On a trial basis, ok. Now…”

God, she’s exhausting, isn’t she? She’s like this every single day. No matter how mundane her task is, Emma will perform it to letter. She watches every single episode of The Martin Lewis Money Show so that she can pretend she knows something about finance. But her entire role is simply to say hello. 

You might think this is great. You might be overjoyed with such wonderful customer service. But for me, it’s a living nightmare.

I am the voice in Emma’s head and I can’t stand it. Greeting customers who don’t care, who don’t see her, who would be no less content to be greeted by a robot. And nothing ever happens. People come in, they put some money in, they take some money out, they leave. Sometimes they’re rude, sometimes they’re fine, but nothing ever happens and Emma never seems to mind. 

What I would give for something exciting to happen, something to justify the seriousness with which she takes her position. 

But not only does Emma not mind the tedium, she genuinely likes her job. It’s not fake, the big smile she puts on, the positivity she radiates, she genuinely enjoys being around members of the public, and if she notices the way they look straight through her, she doesn’t seem to mind. 

The only way I can entertain myself is by making her eat. That’s the only way I get my kicks. She’s always on one diet or another and I always manage to break her. When she lost two stone over the course of last summer, she’d go round showing everyone her before and after snaps. Well done, I kept saying. Good for you. Very impressive. Time to reward yourself, don’t you think? You deserve it. Go on, one Quality Street won’t hurt. That’s it. And another one, there you go. 

Got her to put it all back on in under three months. Plus another stone and a half. Ah, that was good. All the better because she thought it was on her terms. 

But now, she’s lost a stone and a half since Christmas and she hasn’t crumbled once. I did get her to buy a Viennetta mint chocolate chip ice cream cake last week on a whim but she’s not touched it, even though I’ve reminded her about it 17,459 times. 

And if I can’t make her eat, well I don’t really know what the point of me is anymore. Just buzzing around, talking to myself, while she bleats on and on…

“May I ask sir, which do you prefer? Sitting until you’re called or standing in line?

“And is that a strong preference, is it sir?

“Now, one final thing to note, sir, there’s an exit poll for you to fill out as you leave. If you wouldn’t mind taking two minutes to share your experiences, that would be most helpful. Because your opinion really, really matters to me. Thank you ever so much.”

Some of the customers know her. They’re familiar with her. They compliment her on her weight loss. And don’t mention her weight gain. 

Some are like that bodybuilder in the corner. The one who’s pouring coins into the machine that deposits them into your bank account. But it keeps spitting out a few shards of shrapnel and he’s taking personal offence.

Most customers, about 95%, I’d say, are like that poor bloke she’s talking to now. 

He comes in, probably after quite a drive — this town is surrounded by countryside — he’s mid-60s, wearing a woolly hat and glasses and a green hunting jacket with a streak of white paint smeared on the back — and all he wants to do is withdraw some money and be on his way, not listen to Emma bleating on about standing in queue. He doesn’t care if he has to sit or stand, he just wants to get his money, get out of here, get back to his wife and put his feet up.

But Emma watches him as he stands in the queue, waiting for any slight indication that there might be something she can do to help. I tell her there’s some biscuits in the staffroom but she’s not interested.

When he turns his head, she has to stop herself from lunging forward to say, “Everything ok, sir?” I tell her, shut up, nobody wants to hear from you. Then the cashier becomes available and he sees the cashier is available but Emma still has to say, “The cashier’s available, sir.” 

And even when he’s walked over to the cashier, Emma keeps an eye on him to make sure he’s being served well. Gina with the fringe, she’s new you see, and it’s up to the more experienced members of staff to be there if the newer ones need support, even though Emma is no more senior than Gina, and Gina is more than capable of serving this kindly old gentleman who simply wants to get his money and… oh my god, he’s got a gun. 

The customer, the old man with the wooly hat and the hunting jacket with the white paint smeared on the back has dropped a gun into the metal tray separating him from Gina. 

Run, Emma, run. Get out of there

“Excuse me, madam, excuse me.”

Forget the customers. 

“I’m terribly sorry…” 

Out. Get out. 

“I’m terribly sorry, madam, we are closing early today. I know, I appreciate it must be frustrating but we need to ask you to leave.” 

If they want to stay, Emma, let them stay. This maniac has a gun, he’s got a gun. Get out.

But no, no of course not, she has to go round to every single customer… and they don’t listen to her anyway. It’s only when her boss comes out, having seen that the panic button’s been pressed, that the customers listen and leave. And the boss leaves too, she doesn’t care if one or two get left behind.

Emma spends five minutes trying to get the bodybuilder to abandon his 27p, but he won’t hear it. 

“I’m terribly sorry, sir. But we are now closed. I have to ask you.” 

“Piss off,” he says. And he’s right. You should.

“I’m sorry sir, but I am going to have to ask you…”

Get out, get out. Do you have a death wish? 

The old man with the gun is wandering around the bank at this point, singing ‘I Got You Babe’, he’s a complete lunatic Emma, and he’s a few feet away from you, and he could blow your brains out.

“The chap with the spectacles,’ she says, “he appears to have a firearm on his person.” 

“You what?”  

“He’s got a gun,” says Emma and the bodybuilder drops his coins and runs out of there. 

Ok Emma, time to go. 

No, don’t look at him, this maniac, just get out of there. 

“They say our love won’t pay the rent,

“Before it’s earned, our money’s all been spent.”

Get out, Emma. Get out. He’s a madman. 

Oh no. Oh dear. Oh my… you won’t believe this. You won’t even… Emma is worrying about the man with the gun. She thinks if she leaves him alone, he might do something to harm himself. Let him, Emma. Better than him harming you, isn’t it? Forget about him and get out. 

No, don’t do that. Don’t…

“I guess that’s so, we don’t have a pot,”

Don’t sing. For god’s sake, don’t sing. 

“But at least I’m sure of all the things we got.”

He’s staring at you now. Is that what you wanted? Is it? The man with the gun is… Oh, you think he’s got kind eyes. She thinks he’s got kind eyes. 

Emma, kind eyes or not, he is not going to listen to anything you say. Why would he care what you have to say? Why would anybody care what you have to say? You are…

Ok, she’s going. She’s going, she’s going. She’s stopped, she’s turning around. 

“You’re not a bad man,” she says, so quietly he can’t possibly hear her. “I know you’re not a bad man.”

Just shut up and get out. 

“I’m terribly sorry,” he says. Well isn’t that lovely? You wanna ask for his number do you? 

When she gets outside, some police vans are pulling up, sirens blaring, and her boss and Gina with the fringe are across the street smoking. They’re saying they can’t believe this has happened. 

Emma nods along, scratches the eczema on the back of her hand, and when the conversation goes quiet she says, “I can’t help thinking… none of this would have happened… if we didn’t make him stand in line.”  

She gets back to her flat in the evening, where she lives alone. She puts a portion of The Gym Kitchen “Sweet and Sour Chicken” in the microwave. The Gym Kitchen? A healthy microwaveable meal. Come on Emma, you know it’s just marketing.

And she sits and waits for a phone call from her daughter. 

That was eventful, wasn’t it Emma? 

You’ve worked there, what, 16 years… and this is the first time anything of importance has taken place and what were you able to do? Nothing. Nobody listened when you asked them to leave. Nobody thanked you. And none of your colleagues checked on you before fleeing the scene. 

And the man in the hunting jacket? Do you think he took any notice, cos I don’t. 

Don’t see how pointless you are, Emma?

You work there 16 years waiting for something to happen and when it does you’re irrelevant. 

Cara’s not going to call. She probably has heard about it but she’s still not going to call you. 

And you can’t call her because if you do she might tell you off for waking the baby. Here’s a secret Emma, she could always put her phone on silent. She doesn’t want you to call because she doesn’t want to speak to you. Not on the day the bank gets robbed, not ever. She’s got better things to do. More interesting people to talk to. 

If you had got shot today, if that man with the hat and the specs and the kind eyes had put you out of your misery, do you think anyone would really have cared? Cara would finally be able to stop making up excuses for why you can’t be left alone with baby Selina, wouldn’t she?

Emma finishes her Gym Kitchen dinner. 

She picks it up and takes it to the sink. With the other three. Yeah, that’s right, sort that out later. 

Let your low-fat microwaveable containers stack up and then…. Oooh, hang on, this is a bit different… 

She takes out the sharpest knife from the knife rack. A huge glistening blade. Cara got them for her for Christmas but she’s never used them. She touches her finger on the top of the knife and it nearly draws blood. 

What are you doing, Emma? What are you doing with the knife? 

“I got you to hold my hand,”

Emma. 

“I got you to understand,”

Emma…

“I got you to walk with me,”

Emma…

“I got you to talk with me,”

Emma…

“I got you to kiss goodnight.”

Yeah. Yeah, ok. Why not? Why not? 

Go on then Emma, do it. What does it matter? Who’s going to care? Who’s going to notice? 

It’s a good idea, we’ve been thinking about doing it for so long, haven’t we? It’s been there at the back of our mind. This possibility. This potential. This… This… Yes. Do it, Emma. Do it. You could have been killed today, couldn’t you? By someone else’s hands? So what does it matter? Go on, do it. Do it. Do it. Why don’t you just do it? 

And she does.

She does. 

She lifts up that sharp, glistening kitchen knife, all alone in her flat, and she cuts herself… at least a third of the Vienetta mint chocolate chip ice cream cake. And she sits eating it in front of The Martin Lewis Money Show. 

I break her just like I knew I would. She can only ignore me for so long. 

That’s it, Emma. Just eat your ice cream and sit and watch Martin Lewis. And let your whole life.

“Oh for pity’s sake,” she says, “are you still bleating on?”

“What’s the matter? Lost for words, are ya?”

“Yes, as it happens, I am gonna sit and watch Martin Lewis and eat ice cream and I’m gonna blooming well enjoy it thanks very much. And tomorrow I’m gonna go into work and I’m gonna personally call round all the customers who we know were in the branch this afternoon and I’m gonna see if they’re ok. And I’m gonna reassure all my colleagues. I’m gonna put on a big smile and help me and everyone else have as bright a day as possible.

“And in the evening I’m gonna pop round and see Cara and Selina and they’re both gonna be delighted to see me because, you know what, I’m not useless or pathetic. I might be a bit overweight but there are worse things to be.

“So if you wouldn’t mind leaving the premises right now, I’d be very grateful.

“And on the way out maybe you could fill out an exit poll.

“Because your opinion really, really matters to me.” 

So I do. I shut up. I leave the premises. I disappear through the recesses of her mind. My work here is done.

[Doe Wilmann first released this piece on his short story podcast, Meaningless Problems.]

The views expressed in this article are the author’s own and do not necessarily reflect Fair Observer’s editorial policy.