I’m writing this at my job. I work retail, so I’ve got time to kill. Don’t worry. My boss said I could. She said, “This job gets pretty boring, so bring a book or something,” and so I brought a book, but guess what? Today, I finished it, and now I wish I was dead. Our sales goal for today is three hundred dollars; seven hours into the day, we’re at seventy-one. That’s not very good. We’re not going to hit our sales goal and, who knows, maybe the store will close down. If the store closes down, I won’t be able to pay my bills, and if I can’t pay my bills, then that will make me wish I was dead-times-infinity. Death-times-infinity is a very permanent type of death. Really, there’s no coming back from that. But the store isn’t going to close down because the store has Investors, capital “I,” who are loaded like baked potatoes and want this store to Succeed, capital “S.” That’s why I’m writing this instead of freaking out about not being able to pay my bills. The Investors are going to protect me and the store and, hopefully, the entire world. I’m going to trust the process. Not the whole process, though, because some of it is really stupid. For example, I have to do a lot of dusting and sweeping and mopping and scrubbing because if we want the Investors to keep Investing then we have to make the store look nice enough to Invest in. Makes sense but there’s only so much dusting and sweeping and mopping and scrubbing one man can do. After a while, it’s just swiping at air, disinfecting disinfectant. Nope, no way, that’s kind of dumb, so I just checkmark all the tasks on the tasklist anyway and go back to reading or, in this case, writing. People don’t realize that you can trust part of the process or most of the process without trusting the whole process. It’s okay to bite the hand that feeds you now and then if it comes off as a playful nibble. One time, I told a customer where she could find the same t-shirt but cheaper. Another time, I poked a hole in a bag of popcorn with my box cutter so I could damage it out and eat it. These small rebellions provide me with the energy to keep existing, lowercase “e,” so I can keep working retail and eventually earn enough to start Existing, capital “E.” I will continue chugging along. I will recommend you check with our competitors before spending seventeen dollars on a heart-shaped ice cube mold. I’ll wish I was dead, but only halfway seriously, and, hey, it’s better than being dead-times-infinity, which seems far too pitch black and supermassive to be any fun. I’ll say this: It could be worse. I’ll mean it, too, because it could be—cartoonishly so—and sometimes I think about all the ways that’s possible until my chest threatens to explode. I’ll refold a t-shirt using a slab of plastic and it’ll look so perfect, so soft and square, that when I put it back on the t-shirt wall, I’ll start crying real tears. Customers will see and they’ll feel so deeply for me that they’ll each buy a shirt until I’ve pushed us past our sales goal of three hundred dollars far into the thousands. I’ll get a raise, then a promotion, then enough money to buy into the company, an Investor at last. I’ll learn that the Investors also have a stake in Wal-Mart and Target and Ross and Old Navy and TJ Maxx. In Chili’s and Applebee’s and State Farm Insurance. In Highway 24 and every water fountain in the world and the sky. In me and you and her and him and them. I’ll realize that they’re our saviors, have been all along, and I’ll feel guilty as sin about the popcorn I stole and the cleaning tasks I faked. I’ll confess everything, forfeit my position, and return to my old store, defeated but alive. The Investors will take care of me. They will forgive and forget. I’ll thank them as I clip on my nametag and drive to work. I’ll bring two books, just in case I finish the first one. I’ll try harder, no really, I promise. I’ll clock in. Hello. How can I help you?