Liquor and Happiness

I have held a variety of jobs of mild to moderate interest, and most relied on the menial labors which are the basis of a thriving economy. One such position was at a liquor store - a position made all the more interesting due to a quirk in Ontario law, which allowed me to be hired at eighteen, an age when I could not, myself, buy the liquor which I was selling to others.

I inevitably felt like an alcoholic might, ringing in throngs of purchases of forbidden fruit, learning to recommend and describe to the most discerning of palates, having never tasted a drop. Well, that wasn’t entirely true, but in the vast shelves of a liquor store it may as well have been. I performed my job well, but with an air of sadness, passing on to others everything that I could not myself possess, and sometimes reduced to red hot tears.

Bitch, cunt, stuck-up government brat…the insults rolled off the tongues of angry would-be customers, thrown over a shoulder as they stormed out the door. Flip flops smacked against the sand and they were gone, and I tried not to take things too personally. I performed my duties responsibly, erring on the side of caution, but always with a tone of respect. I suggested perhaps that they come back later if they find another, valid ID, with a more clear photo, and that should they choose to, we’d be open till ten.

These suggestions fell on deaf ears, burning with rejection and the loss of precious booze, brimming with hostility and defensiveness. We could all see through it, the bravado, the practiced smiles, and when they looked back at us, they saw themselves. Except we had the power. Their aim was to bring us down a notch.

“I love this job,” a coworker said, genuinely, as he restocked a beer cooler. “Because people are so happy to buy liquor, and I get to take that happiness away.”

For me, it was never quite so sadistic - I was merely playing my part in a complicated societal play. Their role was that of an underage drinker trying to purchase bad booze with a bad fake ID. My role was to make their lives slightly more difficult, so that they would need to employ a friend, or get better ID, or steal and then water down their parent’s booze; it’s a Darwinian principle, really.

But I admired the pleasure my coworker lapped up as he turned them away and back to the street, cussing and empty handed. There was a sparkle in his eyes that never appeared in mine, and sometimes I see it in others - in bus drivers pulling away from a stop (just before a screaming pedestrian reaches their door), in McDonald's employees who respond to rude customers by diligently salting the cholesterol-laden fries. Somehow, I think, they may have discovered a slightly perverse definition of True Happiness.