At the time, I’ve just finished my college semester. I’m eighteen years old and still don’t have a lot of translation contracts, which makes sense since I only just came up with the idea of working as a translator. Gus seems perfectly content selling his dusty books; Simone appears content spending her mom’s money; and I need to find a way to be content like them since they’re not about to pay my way. I find an ad. Employee wanted, customer service in a bookstore specializing in textbooks. Sounds right up my alley, on paper. But the reality won’t quite align with my romantic visions of gently whiling away the afternoons in aisles stacked with the great teachings of humankind, packaged for young readers. It’s not exactly a salt mine. No one’s giving me forty lashes or chaining me up. But the fact remains that this summer job is pretty much the worst suffering a misanthrope such as myself could be asked to endure. My role is to supply textbooks to a spoiled and demanding clientele: rich private-school kids. Minimum wage; no tips.

We employees are posted behind a massive counter that runs along three of the store’s four walls. The fourth wall houses another counter that leads to the cash register. Everyone follows the same process.

1. The client hands the employee their list of required books (textbooks and novels).
2. The employee nods their head and heads back to the warehouse, where hundreds of cardboard boxes are stacked on wooden pallets, organized by school.
3. If the box that contains a book is up too high, or is too heavy, or is for any other reason out of reach, it is deemed impossible to move by the employee, since most of us are literature students with little inclination for heavy lifting.
4. The employee reports to the client that the book they are looking for is out of stock, and will be ordered, and they’ll be contacted as soon as it comes in.
5. The client collects their (small) pile of books that were within reach, complains about the service, since that’s all they can do, and leaves the store.