By shatha abdelsalam, Velocity Contributor

I walk into work with a big smile on my face. I make my way to the back of the store and clock in. The breeze from the outside hits my face, and the wailing of the cars on the street fills my ears. The night has just begun, and so has my shift. I make my way to home furniture, and a customer stops me.

“Excuse me, where are the coloring supplies?” A lady with a Birkin bag asks. I don’t say anything but smile, so she continues, “Hello, can you hear me? Where are the coloring supplies?”

I know I shouldn’t answer; I know I shouldn’t be talking about departments outside of mine, but how can I leave this lady hanging? “Walk straight, go left,” the smile still on my face as I say it.

“Finally,” the lady says before she walks in that direction; she says to herself, “why is it so hard to get help around here?”

I feel bad; I do, but it’s policy. Hopefully nobody saw me.

Time passes by, and I don’t see another customer. The smile still on my face makes my jaw hurt; if only I could take a break. Suddenly the speakers turn on, and an announcement is made. “All employees in the home furniture department head to the communication center.”

A few minutes pass by before I enter the communication center. All the familiar employees gathered here, smiles on their faces like a store uniform. The manager is last to arrive.

“Now, everybody, settle down. Let’s get this started; I’ll cut to the chase. Someone here had helped a customer outside of their department.” A gasp could be heard, and when I think it’s one of the employees, the manager takes another gasp. “I know, I know, the horror.”

The policy is not to talk about other departments other than your own. If a customer asks, you must stay silent. Of course, this rule gets us in a lot more trouble than it helps. How does it help? I have no clue. However, all employees hate it. We just want to help the people.

“Now, I know a lot of you have your reservations; however, this is the policy. I’ll let it pass, but remember, if it happens again, I’ll fire you,” he says with a smile on his face. However, he huffs, clearly realizing that will not get through to his employees. He then pulls out his motto, “Guys, I think it’s been said enough that we are for the people… of the United States of America, for which it stands, one nation under God. indivisible, with semi-liberty and justice for almost all.”

An employee next to me mutters under his breath, “What’s he gonna recite now, the preamble?”

However, the manager hears that and tells the employee, “That’s a great idea. I’m glad to see you getting into the spirit. Okay, everybody, let’s start. We the people… ” He makes us sit there for thirteen minutes, reciting the preamble fifty times.

It’s time for me to head home and start cooking dinner. I feed the kids, and when the clock strikes 10:30 p.m., my wife comes home.

“Honey, I’m home.”

“In the kitchen.”

My wife makes her way to the kitchen; however, the kitchen and I are both a mess. I can see the look on her face—the same look she has all the time.

“Sweetheart,” she says, but then stops herself. I know what she was going to say, and a part of me is glad she doesn’t. I spent all my time after work cooking and feeding the kids; I don’t need her to blabber that I look like I haven’t done anything.

Collecting myself, I put her a plate of food and sit next to her. Thinking we could have a nice dinner, my wife opens her mouth. I dodge one topic; another comes up.

“So how was your outing?” She says. Her voice is sarcastic.

I huff, “You mean my job.”

She put her spoon down after taking a bite and smiled, “Honey, that’s not a real job.”

“I get paid for tasks I do; how is that any different from what you do?” I question her, already feeling a fight about to start.

“I’m in a factory all day, sweetie. Me and hundreds of other women, using our hands. It’s because you are nurturing, as is common for a man, but the job you do isn’t real labor. You just smile all day.” She tries to reason. What kind of reason is that?

“Okay, what if I come to work in the factory with you?” I say, playing devil’s advocate, playing into her claims.

“Honey, you’re a man. You are supposed to be loving and nurturing; working in a factory doesn’t suit you.”

So, because it’s not real labor and mainly a nurturing job, I shouldn’t continue retail, but when I suggest working in a factory, suddenly I should be doing something nurturing.

“Then, honey, what do you suggest I do?” I say grinding my teeth against each other.

“How about this? Stay home with the kids. Your scheduling is ridiculous anyway, going to work from 11 p.m. to 9 p.m. You come here one hour every day, and you spend that time doing homework. You are barely here for the kids; you don’t do anything. Yesterday the kids were toddlers, and now they are teens. Tomorrow, when you come home, they’ll be grown up with kids. And you would have spent that time at work. Plus, as a man, you belong in the kitchen.”

I’m tired of this conversation. I spent time making her dinner, and she claims I do nothing. Nothing I do satisfies her. She’s right though; it felt like just yesterday. Well, it was just yesterday; my baby took their first steps, and now they are going into middle school. However, I just nod and start cleaning the dishes. I don’t want to continue this; I’ve got to work on subtraction. My elementary school diploma isn’t going to get itself. Suddenly, the smile on my face becomes too heavy to uphold.

I walk into work the next day, the smile still on my face. I walk into the gaping hole of an entrance. I feel the breeze follow me all the way to home furniture. I clock in and head to the bathroom before starting my shift.

I walk into the men’s bathroom. There, my manager is using the bathroom. The sight is not for sore eyes.

“Hey. Isn’t this great? So open and free. No barriers, full communication all the time,” my manager exclaims, his smile seemingly daunting.

I truly couldn’t agree more. Who doesn’t love a no-door layout. It makes things very freeing. A lump in my throat says otherwise.

I spend the rest of my shift all over my department. There is so much work to do, and because other departments can’t help, tasks get daunting.

I start fixing the pillows when a woman comes up to me, a child clasping her hand.

“Where are the children’s toys?” She says, seemingly agitated. I can’t help her, so I stand there and smile. “I’m speaking to you.” Silence and a smile. “What is wrong with you?” Silence and a smile. “Oh my, how useless. See honey,” she says, looking down at her daughter, “this is why you finish school. So you don’t become like her.” Silence and a smile. She walks away. The smile on my face becomes droopy, and tears feel like they are stinging my eyes. But, as always, smile. It’s a store policy.

The rest of my shift is spent in silence, the smile there but also not. I’m tired, and I miss my kids. The sun had set and risen and then set again. The days feel long, and the air, once refreshing, is just cold. Damn no-door layout.

After getting ready to pack, I’m called into the communication center. I walk in, and both my manager and the lady from earlier are talking.

“It’s just ridiculous. I ask for help, and this is what happens. What is the point of having workers if I can’t get any damn help?”

“I assure you, we are for the people… of the United States of America for which it stands, one nation under God indivisible with semi-liberty and justice for almost all.”

The lady gives him a side eye, her expression judgmental. He just sits there and smiles. That is, until I walk in.

“Ah, there you are,” my manager exclaims when he sees me.

“That’s the one that didn’t help me,” says the lady, clearly annoyed.

“Care to explain why you didn’t help the young lady?” He says to me,

“She was asking for something out of my department,” I explained.

“So what? That stops you from helping out. Are you stupid? Did you graduate elementary school or where you held back?” She says, obviously unaware of store policy. I look at my manager, waiting for him to explain to her. But he doesn’t; he sits there with his goddamn smile. What the hell is the point of a manager and store policy if they aren’t going to help in any way?

“Yes, that does stop me. Store policy. And I’m well on my way; I just have to get past multiplication and division.” I explain myself since he won’t.

The expression on her face seems like she got more annoyed. I can see her eyes twitching.

“What in God’s name is this man standing in front of me? I swear to God, all you men are useless. Why don’t you just stay in the damn kitchen if you’re going to be useless like this?” She explodes.

I look towards my manager; he doesn’t say anything but smiles. He gives me a warning expression, one I know all too well. Just smile, smile till your jaw drops.

“You’re right,” I say. “Thank you for educating me.”

My manager walks her out and then comes back. Although there is a smile on my face, you can tell I’m not smiling.

“This is why we want to get rid of that rule. We get berated, and when it comes to management, we are told we should have helped. No matter what we do, we get fired. And during it all, we have to freaking smile,” I say, my smile twitching.

“Listen, I know you are upset, but I assure you we are for the people… of the United States of America for which it stands, one nation under God, indivisible, with semi-liberty and justice for almost all.”

Other employees have gathered, and suddenly something clicks. I take a deep breath, and my smile gets ever-so-wider. I take a look around. And suddenly my mind flashes back to something my wife had told me.

“Honey, I’m home.”

“Dining room table.”

She gives me a kiss on the cheek. I can smell the oil from the factory. But she doesn’t smell like sweat the way she usually does.

“Everything good at work?” I ask, curious.

“No, these days the factory conditions are dropping. The other women and I have started a union.”

“Union, what’s a union? It’s not one of my popcorn words.”

“A union is when workers come together to make better conditions for themselves at work. These days we have been on strike, asking for better pay and safer working conditions. It’s like a big family; we all support each other, and there is strength in the number of us. So it looks like management will listen to us.” She explains.

“Wow, that’s great. A new word: union.” I keep that in the back of my mind. It seems like we could use that at work.

I look around at the other employees, the thought of the conversation in mind. There is silence amongst us, one that I intend to break.

The smile on my face drops, and the manager looks at me in horror.

“Listen, everyone, what if we come together? Form a union. It’s where we all come together and fight back for better conditions.”

The manager looks at me with worry; his eyes are shaking, and they shift uncontrollably around the room.

“Can we do that?” one employee asks.

“Wait, so no more seeing each other’s asses in the bathroom; we can fight for doors?”

“Why would you want to get rid of the open-door layout? It’s so breezy and nice. And we can communicate better. That’s why we have it, because we can communicate better. These unions are ridiculous. You won’t be able to communicate with me, one on one; it’ll be through barriers of all kinds.”

“We don’t want to look at your ass anymore,” another employee shouts.

“YEAH!” All the employees shout in unity.

“But-” the manager starts to malfunction, trying to keep the smile on his face,

“Yeah, and we can have better pay and better schedules. We can have time to actually see our kids. And we won’t have to get yelled at by customers,” I add on, fueling the fire.

“Better pay? But in order to be a part of a union, you have to pay. It’s called a membership. So what’s the use in it? Come on, guys; I have said it before. We are for the people… of the United States of America for which it stands, one nation under God indivisible with semi-liberty and justice for almost all.”

“Enough is enough; we can stand up tall. We can make something of ourselves. Enough of this ‘for the people’ bullcrap; we ARE the people. We can show people that just because we are men and naturally nurturing, just because this job seems nurturing, doesn’t mean others can walk all over us. No, this job needs patience and skills. We can finally hold management liable,” I finish off.

“YEAH!” Everyone shouts.

“NO MORE ASSES,” they chant.

But suddenly someone yells, “But can we even do this? Won’t we get fired?”

The manager takes this opportunity and says, “You will get fired. From the very beginning, from the moment you signed the contract, you already agreed not to help each other out.”

“Wait what?” I said, confused. I looked back to the beginning, something clicking in place. How I didn’t see it, I don’t know. “Wait, so this whole do-not-help-other-departments was not to keep organization, but so that we wouldn’t come up with the idea to form a union?”

The shock is clearly evident in my voice; the smile is now replaced with furrowed eyebrows and an open mouth.

“Well, with you employees who haven’t even passed elementary school, a group of uneducated dummies, it was pretty easy to hide it. But yes, so if you violate the rule, you are subject to employee termination. F-I-R-E-D. Put that in your list of popcorn words,” the manager says smugly.

Suddenly, everything changes. And those thoughts go away. My employer is right. I can’t fight him; how can I try? And all these people, they’ll have their livelihood taken away if they fight. My employer told me there is no use, so I guess there’s no use. I should just listen to him. Because what good will come of it? Well, except for actual respect, more pay, more power, and better working conditions. But who wants that anyway, right?

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featured image graphic by EMILY STEPHENS