Data Collection

I felt really crappy that day, horrible as a matter of fact. 

I couldn’t go home because it would count against my sick days. The stupid digital counter kept track of them and displayed everyone’s on the scrolling board in the employee break room. It kept track of when we got to work, when we left work, how many minutes in the breakroom, and worst of all, how many minutes in the bathroom. For all to see scroll by as we sat and drank our coffee for seven minutes and thirty-two seconds. Included were random tips for each individual, derived from cameras watching our every move as we worked. 

But I didn’t care about productivity that day, I was sick. It wasn’t just your typical not feeling well, it was kick ass awful, painful, nauseating, somehow stupefying illness. I sat in the blanket and sheet set aisle in Target’s Home Department, ducked low, snuggling in on the lower empty shelf where the rogue shoppers had taken more than their allotment of the on sale fake down pillows. Plenty of room, no line of sight cameras could spot me there. I dozed in and out, probably sporting a high fever. 

Finally, break time rolled around and I staggered to our break room with its one computer. Thankfully, I got there before anyone else, dragged a coke out of the machine.

“That’s your third Coke this week, Carrie. Sure you don’t want a water instead?”

I hated that machine. It was worse than my mother.

I sat at the employee computer and went on an MD website. The Chatbox appeared.

“What can I help you with today?” it said. 

I looked around, only one other person had entered the break room, Vinny. He sat picking his nose in the corner. I typed in my symptoms, all of them, like a confessional, but I needed help, I needed a pink slip from a doctor to get the hell out of here, go home to my tiny house, and lie down. 

I waited for a reply. Chatbox had three rolling dots like it was trying to think up something. I looked closer: Target Employee Chatbox it said in tiny letters below the rolling dots. 

“I didn’t want Target’s! I wanted the Medical Chatbox!” I tried to close the window.

No amount of clicking on the x helped. Still the dots kept rolling.

“God, maybe I am dying! And it doesn’t want to tell me,” I thought.

Vinny shifted in his seat and started on the other nostril.

Suddenly all the alarms in the building went off. Blue light specials, red flashing, ear blasting horns. 

“Will Carrie Danielson immediately come to the front desk! All employees stay clear of Carrie Danielson. We have a five alarm Covid alert. Masks! Masks! Everyone is required to mask up! Terrible, deadly strain. No one should approach, Carrie Danielson you are to leave work. You have violated the Covid Policy! That requires immediate unpaid suspension. What remains of your paycheck will be sent to your tiny home. You will be locked in at home until further notice.”

I stood up. Vinny backed up against the wall as far from me as he could get.

“Get outta here!” he said, “I need this job!”

I left up the women’s underwear aisle. At each gap I could see employees peering at me along the back walls. 

How would I ever get another job since corporations shared all employee data between them? Every place I applied would know I broke the Covid Policy at Target. And my tiny house was Target Housing. This did not look good for my future. 

Right now though, I didn’t care; I just wanted to go home, have them lock me in and sleep.

***

Carrie Danielson is a retired public school teacher who turned her interest to writing. She runs San Diego DimeStories, a monthly writing open mic. You can read her blog at: www.justcarrie.blog

Carrie Danielson

Carrie Danielson is a retired public school teacher who turned her interest to writing. She runs San Diego DimeStories, a monthly writing open mic. You can read her blog at: www.justcarrie.blog

https://justcarrie.blog/
Next
Next

AI Marriage