Cast
Corinne: a retail worker.

Scene
“How are you today sir? Just these?”

My name’s Corinne. I’m a cashier at Coles. A “Checkout Operator.” People hand things to me and I hand them back and take their money. Beep. (slight pause) “Do you have Fly Buys? Fifteen sixty thanks.” My name’s Corinne and this is my thirteenth minimum wage job. I say hello and scan groceries. “Four forty change. Have a nice day.” And yeah, yeah, yeah. I know it. Straight away, you’re looking down at me. Dumb bitch should’ve gone to university or even TAFE and got herself a real job. What’s a thirty-two year old doing working at Coles? “How are you, ma’am?” Beep.

At university, they’d tell me I have low SES. They’d say it’s statistically unlikely I will change my socioeconomic status due to my income, education and occupation. And I have a kid, so that’s about all there is to it. “Eighty-two dollars, please.” Hey, I dodged the bullet if you ask me. I should be fucking fat like Sheree over there. “Do you have a two by any chance? Thank you.”

Truth is, I have climbed to the top. Job one was at the butchers. I got twelve twenty an hour and cleaned guts and bone off Perspex when I wasn’t selling red-faced men and their pram-pushing wives steak and sausages. “Enjoy your lamb shanks.” You think that’s better than this cushy job? I tell you, this is the upper management of the service industry.

Beat.

If you can hear that voice over there, it’s the Coles robot bitch who took five of our jobs. They brought in the self-checkout machines a year ago, or as we call them here, the ‘free fruit’ machines. See, you put your fruit straight into your bags…  “Sorry? I gave you seven eighty, ma’am, it cost twelve dollars twenty and you gave me a twenty. I’m certain, ma’am. It says how much change to give you on your receipt.” Sorry. Posh bitch can’t count. You put the fruit and veg straight into your bags and walk away and no one knows you’ve nicked it. Still costs them less than five wages so they don’t much care.

And that’s the problem with the minimum wage circuit. We’re nothing but robots being phased out by robots. I’m not just talking about the scanning and the giving of change, I mean the whole thing. We have a script, for chrissakes: “My name’s Corinne and I’ll be your Subway sandwich artist today. Would you like wholemeal, five grain, cheese or Italian herbs?”

Everything we say to you is word-for-word off the script and small talk beyond “How was your day?” is rarer than a customer who tips. My conversations aren’t much broader than the ones had by that electronic piece of shit over there. “This was four sixty five and not four eighty, you reckon? One moment, please. Price check on Red Bull twin pack. Price check on Red Bull twin pack.”

You know, it’s amazing how much you can tell about someone in the one minute they take to pass through my checkout. This guy here is into porn and video games. No one else buys nothing but energy drinks. You can tell if someone’s married, has kids, you can tell their income from their brand choices. How smart they are. How good they are at maths. “Sheree reckons it’s meant to be four eighty. Maybe you looked at the wrong price tag?” You can tell half these women don’t get fucked near as often as they want. Most people think they’re better than people like me but I can see everything that’s wrong with their lives in a second. The only difference is they get paid triple what I do to hate their jobs....

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