The last day at my old job

This is my last day. I’ve worked here for over a decade. I’ve got a new job at a different company in another city.

When people leave, they’re usually presented with a card and a small gift. Following a glowing report about their contribution to the company, they’re expected to offer some kind words in return.

Here are my words. They’re in the form of a story. It’s about my first-ever interview for my first-ever job, and what I learned.

What follows is true. 100% true.

It’s the end of 1994. I’m sixteen and I need money. I’ve been working a paper round since I was fourteen but it’s hard graft. The pay is terrible, and the cold weather and dark evenings make it a real chore.

I need money to feed my hobbies. Dungeons & Dragons. Warhammer 4oK. That kind of thing. Someone had mentioned that the local supermarkets are looking for people during the ramp-up to Christmas.

There’s three supermarkets in town. I choose the one that my mum goes to.

I speak to the first person that I find in a shop uniform. She’s a severe-looking lady with thick forearms standing behind the deli counter. She tells me that they don’t need any more help but she hands me an application form to fill out just in case anything comes up.

The call comes through a week later. My interview is lined up for 11am, Saturday.

I turn up wearing my school uniform as it’s the only smart thing I own. I’m led through a set of large double doors that separate the shop floor from the warehouse. The warehouse is stark contrast to the shop. It’s dark and industrial. We go through another door into a damp corridor. Toilets are on the left; offices are on the right.

I’m interviewed by Keith. He has ‘Elvis’ written on his knuckles. It’s spelt wrong. It reads EVLS. The ‘S’ was backwards. He did it himself during a short stretch in prison for GBH.

Keith is a mean drunk. He assures me that his brother is far worse. Keith is now sober and staying out of trouble. As a result, he’s losing weight.

In addition to confirming my details he asks three questions:

Am I a hard worker? (Yes)

Do I drive? (No)

Do I live close enough that I can walk here and don’t have to rely on other people for lifts? (Yes)

The job is night-fill. I would help to take stock from the warehouse onto the shop floor and refill the shelves when the shop is closed.

Shifts usually start twenty minutes before the store’s closed and last four hours. That’s usually how long it takes to do the job.

Keith takes me upstairs to the breakroom / canteen / kitchen / smoking room. There’s ceiling-to-floor windows on two sides. The windows are locked at all times for security reasons. They haven’t been cleaned in a long time. The walls and ceiling are coated in a thick layer of yellow nicotine. The air is stale from years of trapped smoke.

A man with thick jam-jar-bottom glasses and a thin ginger beard is cleaning the ceiling with a long-handled paint roller, which he dips into a bucket of bleach every now and then. As a result, thick clods of tar and bleach rain down on him.

We’re briefly introduced. The man cleaning the ceiling is also called Keith. Keith II is my ‘real’ boss. Keith II doesn’t smile. He doesn’t speak. He just stares at me blankly, nods his head and turns his attention back to his paint roller.

We leave the room. Keith tells me that Keith II isn’t being paid to clean the breakout area. This is his day off. Keith II is being punished for the sexual harassment of two female colleagues.

Keith II had made inappropriate comments while alone with each lady. He was holding a large, uncooked salami at the time. They had both reported the matter to the management.

One of them had left the company and her husband was threatening to kill Keith II. He often waits in the car park hoping to catch him.

The other woman agreed to settle the matter without going to the authorities. She still works behind the deli. She’d given me the application form.

Keith tells me not to worry too much about Keith II. The week before, ten bottles of whisky had gone missing from the store during night-fill. Coincidently, on the same night, management had sent in a security team at the end of the shift to check everyone leaving the store. Management sends them in unannounced every month or so to keep employees on their toes. The bottles were not discovered during the check.

The bottles had definitely gone missing during night-fill. Management is certain that Keith II has them stashed somewhere on the premises and is waiting for the right moment. As we walk back down the corridor, Keith checks the lockers for the umpteenth time hoping to find them.

“So, if he ever gives you something when you leave the store — anything — refuse to take it.”

He tells me that there’s something else I need to know about Keith II. He wears rubber-soled shoes. He likes to walk around the store silently and sneak up on people. He does this to catch them ‘in the act’ so he can fire them. He likes firing people. That’s why the job opened up.

I ask him why people get fired.

Other than drinking on the job, there’s only one way of getting fired from night-fill: stealing.

The rules are as follows:

1. Never take anything off the premises unless you have a receipt. Your bags can be checked. Your person can be searched.

2. Never eat on the shop floor. If you’re caught, you will be fired on the spot.

3. You need a receipt for anything you eat in the break-out room. Even if you brought it from home.

I promise him that I will never steal food from the supermarket.

“Oh no,” he says. “We steal food all the time.”

It’s one of the perks of the job. It’s a form of entertainment.

“In fact, if I give you something on the shop floor, you better eat it.”

Keith likes sausage rolls. The ones he likes best come in pairs. He rarely wants both in one go.

“When you eat on the shop floor, eat fast. Take the wrappers with you and put them a bin in the breakout area. Never get caught throwing away the evidence. Never take the evidence off the premises. Never leave it on the shop floor.”

I’m terrified. I want a job. I don’t want a life of crime.

We walk back through the warehouse. Keith opens the external delivery doors. He put a cigarette in his mouth and offers me one. I don’t smoke.

“If you want this job, you better start. Smokers get three additional ten-minute breaks. One every hour. You don’t get them if you don’t smoke.”

He lights the cigarette and offers me this advice.

“My team doesn’t work here out of choice. We work anti-social hours because this is our second job, or we look after our kids during the day. We work here because we need the money.

“For some, nobody else will employ us. We could work the bins — it pays well — but you have to get up at 5am and who wants that?

“We work here because we have to but we have something else in common. We all work hard. The shift is four hours long but if we do it in three, we all go home early.

“We all work hard and we all take pride in our work. We fill shelves, we clean up mess, we face-up products and check sell-by dates. That’s all we do. But we do it well. And as a result, we love working here.

“If you take pride in your work, people will respect you and you will enjoy life.

“So, here’s the deal: when you first start, we’ll act like we don’t like you. We’ll invent cruel names for you. We’ll make jokes about you to your face. We’ll laugh at you. We’ll do it because we find it funny and to test your metal.

“If you still want to carry on working here, if you take the names and jokes on the chin, and if you learn to give as good as you get… you’ll love working here too.”

I accepted the job. He shook my hand and gave me a plastic carrier bag. It contained a present wrapped in Christmas paper.

“It’s a personal welcome gift from me to you. Something I do for all new starters. Open it when you get home.”

It was a bottle of whisky.