Slow
Short Story
By Victoria Ashleigh Rose
Mattie works in a beautiful bookstore with grand ceilings and bright happy lights, and that was supposed to make life a little better. ADHD might not be much help to them, but their OCD means that they organize shelves meticulously. Meanwhile, they could peek into books and listen to shopper critiques of popular fiction without saying a word. It didn’t matter that they stutter when nervous, or that their eyes are draped in tired bags from late, anxious nights. It didn’t matter that their feet drag in the mornings. It’s not like the world will end if books take a little longer to be shelved now and then… right?
They can even reorganize the magazines whenever the store isn't busy—even though it will become messy again. Maybe the manager will notice that the shelves look cleaner because of them.
No one talks to them in the magazine section today, so they must be being productive enough. It’s not so bad, really. None of their co-workers can decide that they don't like them if they don't talk to them, right? And if the magazines are organized by health and fitness, art and publishing, and the latest drama about the royal family, then maybe people won't accidentally pick up a cookbook when they are trying to read about how to look “fit for a prince”—or princess, or whoever you’re into. What are they doing again? Oh yeah, organizing.
Mattie loves the children's section, too. Children never tell Mattie’s manager that they didn't smile enough when providing customer service. Children make messes all the time, so Mattie is never bored, and putting stuffed toys back in their cute little displays helps their mind wander to happy places instead of dark ones. They think about their father buying that giant stuffed tiger for their eighth birthday, instead of beating them on their 16th. The tiger is still above their bed in their “cozy” studio apartment. The rent is just barely manageable with this job, but they don't have to hide who they are in closets or behind bedroom doors anymore, (which is good, because their apartment doesn’t have any). Their pill bottles sit out in the open now, because they can finally get the help that they need without their mother calling them crazy.
There are so many self-help and parenting books in this store. Maybe they will buy one for themselves with their next paycheck—or mail one to their home address. Mattie picks up a book called "How to Love Your Disabled Child" and thinks that it might be a little too on-the-nose to send home for Christmas. They chuckle at the thought, and then their gut sinks low. Imagine asking your family to love you through passive-aggressive Christmas gifts; imagine their contorted face when they see it, the scoff that leaves their lips like “yeah right” …
“Matthew.”
They look up. “Oh… um, it’s still Mattie, actually.”
“You've been wandering around the store for your entire shift.”
Mattie looks around and sees that the children’s books are freshly scattered on the ground again. The magazine rack already looks like it took to a big gust of wind—as though Matty didn’t organize it an hour ago. Now “Busty Women's Magazine” is splayed in front of “Men's Motor Cycling: Midlife Crisis or Enhanced Masculinity?”. They don't think that ended up there as a coincidence.
*Snap Snap*
“Hello? What have you even been working on?” The manager waves for their attention. Dave is the worst manager to be asking them this. Dave likes to see proof.
“I am re-alphabetizing Mental Health and Well-Being,” Mattie tells him, holding the parenting book in their grasp. Their hands are trembling, but at least their voice isn't. Dave always thinks Mattie is lying when that happens.
“We don’t care about this section, Matthew. You should be cleaning areas that are messy or helping customers instead of zoning out. You’ve already had two write-ups about this,” he warns, earning a customer’s hollow glance. Dave shifts his stance, adjusting his watch like he has somewhere more important to be. His eyes scan the store before finally settling back on Mattie. “Honestly, I don’t think you’re cut out for this. You always look overwhelmed. This isn’t a place where people can just... disappear into their own heads, Matthew. Customers need engagement. They need energy.” He gestures vaguely. The eavesdropper, a posh, greying woman, starkly looks away. “—And I don’t see that in you.”
Mattie feels out of breath. Their head throbs and the lights get blurry, but Dave continues. “Maybe you should consider finding a job with fewer expectations so that you won’t disappoint your team so much. I can’t imagine that the stress is good for your—well—your conditions.” he explains, eyes flicking to any other corner of the store than where they are standing. Mattie thinks that Dave thinks he is being kind. “It really might be time to consider other options.”
Their heartbeat rages loud in their eardrums now as a dead weight settles heavy on their chest. There are no words to say back to Dave that they haven’t already said. I love this job. I literally *just* cleaned those areas. I've told you that when I work alone, I lose track of time. No one likes me here and so I avoid everyone. They don't like me because you berate me on the sales floor. I see their eyes watching. I hear their scoffs. I know that they just stand around and talk about me the moment that your office door closes again. I know that they've never been written-up for it. I know that you would treat me differently if you could see on the outside what I feel within. I know that I don't count as an inclusivity hire because the customer base can't *tell*. They can’t see my disability. They won't look at me and praise the company for its “progressive hiring”—so it isn’t really worth it to accommodate me. I know that you won't suggest a better place for me to work because there is nowhere better. There is nowhere that would allow me to work slower than others. There is nowhere that won’t write me up for crying in the bathroom stall for too long. There is nowhere—
“Maybe you should just go home.”
Mattie has been quiet for too long. They don't want to be quiet anymore.
“If I leave work, I won't be able to afford my home,” they sneer, startling themself with the ferocity of strain that escapes their throat. There is an exposed rawness in their breath now, but it feels justified, invigorating, even.
The manager mushes his lips together in an awkward line so as to say words without saying them—because he knows better than to say it out loud—but he still thinks it.
That's not my problem, kid.
