On the Clock: What Low-Wage Work Did to Me and How It Drives America Insane

by Emily Guendelsberger

As I inch out of the massive parking lot, I spot Darryl in the large huddle of people at the bus stop. It’s freezing and miserable, and we’re going the same way. I consider stopping to give him a ride. No. Fuck Darryl. I don’t care. I don’t want to make small talk. I don’t want to delay my bedtime for however many minutes I’ll have to go out of my way. I don’t want Darryl to get the wrong idea, and I don’t want to feel obligated to give him rides in the future. I just don’t care. And I want McDonald’s, right fucking now. So I pretend not to see him. I find it hard to explain the needling shame I still feel about this. It’s not a big deal, and I’m positive Darryl wouldn’t hold it against me. But I like to think of myself as someone who’d offer a nice kid a ride home after a truly shitty day of work. Right now, though, exhaustion has shrunk my circle of empathy to the point that it’s barely big enough for myself. I didn’t know that could happen, and it’s not pleasant. I guess I never realized that this might affect more than just my body.