by Jane Doe

Liberty Enlightening the World, 1884, Root & Tinker (Library of Congress)

At approximately 4:36pm, the lights went out in the New Colossus Supermarket. My shift had started at 4:30, and I had the pleasure of training the new girl, Rochelle, on her first day as a cashier. The power outage came on gradually, first appearing in the form of a broken credit card machine. Two or three swipes and nothing happened, not even a blinking light. A few moments later the lights flickered on and off, followed by every other register crashing and half of the ceiling lights turning off. All of these were sure signs that the generators had kicked in.

“Attention New Colossus Shoppers, we are experiencing electrical difficulties. Please calmly proceed to check out, as the store will be closing early this evening,” boomed the Manager over the loudspeaker.

A stir of excitement buzzed through the employees. “Blackout,” whispered the stock boys with a smirk as they passed by our register. I responded with a similar smile as I quickly checked out the remaining customers. We all knew what was in store for us this evening.

“Does this mean I get to go home?” asked the new girl Rochelle, completely ignorant to the gift that had been presented to her on her first day on the job.

“Well, I guess you can if you’d like. But I have no idea why you would want to do that,” I replied coyly.

Blackouts are a cashier’s snow day. They are unexpected vacations in the midst of a hectic Saturday afternoon that provide the staff with a break from a tireless routine. Working as a cashier in a high volume supermarket requires the patience of a saint. Between the nagging customers, gossiping co-workers, and incompetent middle-management shouting nonsensical decrees every other month, it’s a wonder the term “going postal” hasn’t been changed to “going grocer.” In the four years that I’ve worked at New Colossus, I’ve witnessed more arrests and mental breakdowns in the store than in my entire life, and almost none of them were customers.

We’ve had deli managers throw frozen hams and scream about fascists, cashiers hold domestic disputes on register, stock boys taken out in handcuffs, and innumerable trips to the hospital involving meat department employees accidentally cutting off appendages. Yet somehow, between the outrageous events and repetitive tasks, we employees have developed a bond similar to war veterans and prison inmates. We’ve spent the better part of our teenage years together, and out of a lack of anything better to do, we’ve grown closer than family.

After all of the customers were herded out of the store, the store manager assembled the employees in the main office.

“I’m going to go home now. Since I can’t legally force you to leave, you have the option to stay. If you plan on staying, it is your responsibility to make sure the store looks perfect in the morning. That means: all aisles must be leveled, all stray items put in their place, and all expired food should be pulled from the shelves. The electrical company said that the power will go on before 11pm, and the generators have more than enough power for the time being. Nick is in charge for now, but the night crew manager will be coming in at 10:30pm. If you have any questions feel free to call my cellphone,” expounded the Manger, as he shook his phone in the air for visual aid.

Everyone shifted uneasily in place. It is a technique we’ve picked up over the years; the trick is to never let the Manger know that we enjoy staying in the store without him. We’ve led him to believe that we loathe the responsibility.

“Alright everyone, get to work.”

As soon as the manager left the store, we reassembled in the cookie aisle to reassign tasks for the evening.

Standing in a row amongst the Oreos, we were a motley crew. New Colossus is the type of place you work at for either weeks or years. There are “lifers” who have worked there for decades, students working during college, and the newer high school crowd who have yet to find their place within our community.

There is a high turnover rate amongst new hires, but those few that make it over the four month hurdle get indoctrinated into the subculture quickly. Many of us have worked there since we were sixteen, stopping by after school to make minimum wage, and have stayed for years. There is a common sentiment amongst employees: although the job is horrible and the bosses are incompetent, we’ve landed in shit. New Colossus is a union shop, meaning that we are entitled to yearly raises, time-and-a-half on Sundays and holidays, health insurance, dental plans, paid vacation and sick days, and an iron clad contract that makes it virtually impossible to get fired. Many of us have taken the union contract as a challenge, rather than a protectorate, by pushing the envelope; we’re almost daring the company to fire us.

“Okay guys. Louis, you’re in charge of bread and cold cuts. Francis, you’ve got condiments. Bill, we’re gonna need at least three pounds of macaroni salad. I’m starving over here. And last but not least: “Zoey, please show Rochelle where we grab the plates and cups from. I think I’ve got a 12-pack of Keystone out back but tonight’s a special occasion, so I’m chilling a Heineken mini keg in the walk-in freezers before they thaw. I’ve also got some sparkling cider for the younger ones and the drivers for the evening. Am I clear?” smiled Nick.

“As a bell, Nick. As a bell,” replied Bill as we all scattered towards our appropriated tasks to set up our makeshift picnic.

The lack of electricity eliminated the need to avoid security cameras. Upper management views the tapes on a weekly basis, vying for evidence of theft. Since we are not as sly as we believe, inventory levels always indicate shrinkage. Fortunately, the company cannot act unless they have solid evidence of our guilt, as per union contract. Therefore, we choreograph intricate plays akin to an NHL football team; we blitz, half-back pass, and Hail Mary our way past security cameras, towards the ultimate touchdown: free lunch. To a New Colossus employee, it’s not considered stealing if there is a craft behind it.

New Colossus is the anti-reality, where all social concerns and stereotypes are thrown out of the window. It acts as a sovereign nation, making its own laws in the midst of traditional society. It is the only place on earth where a straight “A” student would become best friends with the high school dropout, where the awkward video gamer befriends preppy girls who are half his age, and where the flamboyantly gay (but closeted) choir singer who was bullied throughout his teenage years can become Top Dog. I like to refer to New Colossus as “The Land of the Misfit Toys,” because each worker is odd in his or her own right, with awkward characteristics and quirky behaviors. The stock boys compare our kinship to survivors (either from a deserted island, a war troop, or a zombie apocalypse), in that, despite our differences, we’ve seen it all and those experiences have brought us together in a way that superficial friendships could never do.

“Imagine if this isn’t really a black out, but we’re just really in the midsts of a zombie apocalypse?” asked Bill, as he leveled the canned vegetables.

“Please, let’s not start this again,” Francis answered, obviously fed up with the drawn out discussion of how we would react if zombies attacked New Colossus.

“No. I’m serious. We haven’t seen anyone outside for hours. No one has even banged on our door asking if we were open. Zoey, Don’t you find that strange?”

“I don’t know, Bill. It might be because it’s 10pm and you can’t see four feet in front of your face in the parking lot. You are aware the blackout includes the parking lot also, right?” I replied sarcastically, while passing by with a cart full of expired items.

“Zombies again?” interjected Louis, from the next aisle, after overhearing the conversation.

“All I’m saying is that if zombies attacked we’d be in prime real estate right now. Unlimited food supply, nearby pharmacy, lots of running space…” Bill continued.

Occasionally, our outrageous conversations result in plans that we know will never happen. These ideas have culminated into the largest (and most bizarre) To-Do list that is hanging up in the back room of our store. We have plans to hold Dungeons & Dragons keg parties, embark on cross-country road trips, and to organize black-tie affairs. And, despite knowing that we will never do any of these things, we find comfort in the fact that we have each other, just in case anyone has the self-discipline to save up enough money for a trip to San Diego’s Comic Con and theatrical quality Avengers costumes. Although we live separate lives outside of New Colossus, we enjoy the fact that we have our store to meet back at when things go awry; we have a place where you can forget about reality and actually believe that you’re the last people on earth– stuck inside a New Colossus in the midst of a zombie apocalypse.

“So is this what we do all day? Hang out, eat food, and talk about zombies?” asked Rochelle, as she chomped down on a Godfather hero, complete with prosciutto de parma and extra virgin olive oil dressing.

“Sometimes we make forts out of paper towels,” replied Louis as he finished his third cup of Heineken.

“Do we ever do work?”

We’re asked this question a lot. And the truth is, we actually work hard. That is, during the day we do. There isn’t much work left to do at night, because no one comes into the store. After 7:30pm the cashiers read tabloids while the levelers and stock boys find ways to entertain themselves. The closing management is as sorry as the work force, with one assistant manager being an alcoholic and the other being too close in age with us to exert any formal authority. Therefore, as long as all of the work is finished by the time the Night Crew manager clocks in at 10:30 pm, we have free reigns. After the general manager switches shifts with his supporting staff, we are left to our own devices.

The closing crew consists of twenty various employees. We are almost all students who come to New Colossus after school to pay for various expenses, but have found for ourselves a makeshift fraternity. New Colossus allows for a lapse in time where maturity is delayed and teenage angst can dissipate among aromas of half-eaten bags of potato chips, potent french onion dip, and ad hoc piña coladas. Our automated door opens for all, with the white florescent lights beaming from inside like a beacon, as if to say “Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, the wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”

The lights beamed on slightly before 10:30pm. At that moment, we had just finished all desired tasks and had disposed of our picnic’s evidence. Each of us clocked out using the fingerprint scanner, to ensure the company that we aren’t leaving work early and stealing their time, and we moseyed our way into the parking lot. Our goodbyes were short, for we knew we would see each other the next day, and we waved to Rochelle as she hopped into the backseat of her parents’ SUV.

“What do you think of her?” I asked Francis, as I rubbed my hands together for warmth.

“I like her,” Francis replied, “She’s got spunk. I think she might stay. I mean, would you leave after tonight?”

I started my engine, looked back at Francis, and replied, “Not a chance.”