The Fred Meyer parking lot and I have a complex relationship. I got a part-time job at the regional supermarket in February of 2020, in the midst of the pandemic. I had been looking for work since June, in an employment market where middle-aged, experienced workers were applying for positions at shipping yards and fast food restaurants; needless to say, pushing carts and taking out the trash seemed like a luxury.
I had always wanted consistent work, ever since I was little. Working meant money, which I could spend and save, which brought comfort and security. All through my childhood and adolescence, I was looking for odd jobs. Mowing neighbor’s lawns, staining the porch, building a bike shed. I remember one particularly grueling summer, where I agreed to test the water-proof seals on my Mom’s alcoholic popsicle business– pouring water in and out of thousands of brightly colored paper tubes, checking for leaks, for two weeks straight. I certainly didn’t enjoy it, but that wasn’t important to me. I followed my mantra: suffer now, pleasure later.
I had a similar mindset my first shift. Winters in Portland, Oregon are mild compared to the Midwest, but they’re no island paradise. Forty degrees, no sun, constant rain. I showed up to my first shift wearing black jeans, a sweater, and black vans; I left with bright red hands, chattering teeth, and droopy eyes. The heater in my 2002 Honda CR-V felt like the pinnacle of opulence.
As the days and weeks passed at my new job, experience undeniably made things easier- along with a new pair of boots and gloves. Wake up, go to online school for six hours. Play video games until my shift starts, then work until 11 at night. Eat dinner alone, go to sleep too late, repeat. I had weekends off, but for the most part I just worked and went to school. It was a consistent and, most importantly, profitable life. My new career was everything I wanted. And it was unbearable.
I couldn’t figure out what the problem was for a long time. Is this not what I wanted? The money was good: $13.35 an hour feels like investment banking numbers to a 17-year-old. Pushing hundreds of shopping carts and lugging massive bags of trash to the dumpster was hard work, yes, but it was manageable. The 2,000 dollars in my savings felt almost too much to spend, memories of $1 yakisoba from middle school lingering in my head. None of that mattered; I was miserable. Every day was endless, each week an eternity. I dreaded doing anything but sleeping. Life had become a checklist I could never complete.
There was no one realization, no moment of clarity: there almost never is. But there was a sunset. Dateless, timeless, hazy in my memory. I was at work, mindlessly pushing a line of carts. Maybe it had just rained, maybe the air was tight with a dry cold. Maybe it was cloudy, or maybe the sky was clear blue. I just remember seeing the sun resting upon the horizon, flattening orange against the curvature of the Earth. Of course I had seen the sunset before, at and away from Fred Meyer. There wasn’t anything particularly special about that day, that specific sun. But I felt like I finally understood. I am allowed to enjoy this sunset. I can have pleasure now. I don’t have to suffer.
I still perform the same job, do the same things. I didn’t uncover the secret to eternal happiness. I simply learned to watch the sunset, when I can. Every sunset is unique, as is every moment of existence. Each one a sunset, with the capacity for joy. They will not come again, never repeat. But there will always be more sunsets.
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