You may (or possibly may not) remember that the store recently underwent some pretty major construction. New pumps, new walkways, new parking lot. This has been great for business, but not so great for me. Seems that my boss wants to keep our new walkways and parking lot looking nice and clean, so he added a new item to my already long list of Things To Clean Every Night:
Sweep up all the cigarette butts from the parking lot and walkways.
I must state, for the record, that cigarette butts gross the hell out of me. They’re stinky, frequently smoldering, saliva-covered remnants of legalized addiction, and I resent having to deal with them. Why smokers can’t take care of the damned things themselves is beyond me. The last time I knew, ashtrays still came standard in every automobile. There are no less than four ashtrays prominently on display in front of the store. And yet, every Monday-Wednesday morning, promptly at 1:20, I must go out into the parking lot and spend a minimum of fifteen minutes sweeping the little fuckers up.
I say ‘a minimum of fifteen minutes’ because on Mondays I usually spend at least twice that amount of time outside with a broom and dustpan. Seems the guy (we’ll call him “J”) who works third shift opposite me–himself a smoker, and frequent butt chucker–can’t be bothered with this little chore. Not that it surprises me. He can’t be bothered to do much else, either. My boss knows this, but won’t do anything about it. J’s sole purpose for being employed at this rural convenience store is to deter troublemakers from making trouble on the weekends. He’s a pretty big guy, and apparently his mere presence keeps the rowdy crowd in line. That’s all fine and well, but it means I get stuck with all the real work.
If only I was 6’8″ and had a penis.