[Writing Contest] - THE ARENA

I’m walking to work, same as most days, trying to enjoy the cygnets on the canal and the temporary lack of rain as I make my way in. But it feels like I’m playing at it lately, forcing myself to notice these things because I remember I used to enjoy them. Something has become detached; it could be the world, but it’s probably me. Today I count nine cygnets, one less than yesterday. I think about where the other might have gone, but I don’t wonder. I don’t care. Some animal lover you are.

When the shop comes into view, everything inside me wants me to stop, or to turn around. And yet my legs keep going, the traitorous bastards. I know I’m not powerless, but knowing it doesn’t make me stop. I push the door and the bell salutes me. I smile across at Claire, who’s slicing tomatoes and smiling back. Two years she’s been working here. How can she stand it? Maybe it gets better, or maybe I’m the problem.

I’m not.

My boss, Chris, is the problem.

There are a set of ‘truths’ about myself I wrote down last month. I keep them at home and look at them sometimes. The top three are: Smart, Brave, and Competent. I don’t believe them. I only wrote them because I used to believe them, and I don’t want to forget how I used to be.

I was so happy when I got this job. Minimum wage, but I didn’t mind. Money was tight and it meant I wouldn’t need the ‘generous’ €7 weekly dole pay out I got for being fortunate enough to live with my big-shot Supermacs-employee boyfriend.

But it didn’t take long for my list of truths to be chiselled away. First to go was competent. I was pricing sandwiches incorrectly, adding too much cheese, not enough cheese. Three slices of cucumber for 15c, not four. You get the idea.

Next out the window went smart—I liked smart. Too thick to remember a deli order, and I was only getting worse as time went on. That’s not supposed to happen; it’s never happened before. Maybe I have a tumour. The cool rush of relief that accompanies that thought is slightly worrying.

Brave was the last to go. Out with a whimper. I clung to its corpse too long after it was cold. I tried to convince myself that by going in and taking what Chris could dish out, I was being brave. The properly brave option would have been to walk out, but by the time I realised, it was too late. Fuck.

It’s been okay today, but it’s nearly time to go home now and I don’t know what time Chris wants me in tomorrow. I ask him and he says, “Later.” I leave it until I’m getting my coat and ask him again. “I told you I’d tell you later. Are you fucking thick?” He’s shouting. Customers are staring. Everyone’s waiting for my reaction.

I feel bad for being so hard on my legs earlier, because now they’ve decided to extract me from the situation. I just about manage an “I quit” (where a “fuck you” would have been equally appropriate), before I push out through the chiming door.

The door chimes again and I can hear people leaving the shop. One shouts after me. “Fair play!” I’m not looking around, though, because something has changed. For the first time in months I feel part of the world. And I know that I’m brave.