A Year, Probably

Yesterday, while talking with one of my relatives, answering the unanswerable question, “What do you want to do?” I realized that I have information about my work:

I am not going to be promoted.

A week and a half ago, I had a talk with The Manager. She wanted to know why I was cutting my hours at work. (I don’t want to work anymore than 25 a week.) I told her it’s because I hate the place and it’s making me hate the people I work with and I don’t want that. Why? Because she told me, when we found our Mr. Asshole was going to be our DM, that I had no chance of being promoted. She insisted she never said that. Then she insisted that, if in fact she had, it was a joke. Then she said that she didn’t know I wanted to be promoted. I said I did and asked what I’d have to do to get there. She said that no one in the store is going to be promoted until two shift supervisors are gone. Fired, quit, promoted, or demoted. What are the odds of that happening? Zero. But, she said, there will be a new store in The Town That Jack’s Son Built in nine months that’ll need supervisors, especially ones who know what they’re doing. I’m not movie to that town for an extra buck an hour, and I’m definitely not driving the 100-120 mile (I haven’t measured) round trip for shit pay. No one who lives in Cowtown is going to make that drive, and, probably, none of them want to move their either. Well, she said, they’re talking about opening a store in The Town of Jim in a year, probably. And then she suggested that I work there.

A year? I asked.
A year. I said.

And I walked away from her.

So, I am not going to be promoted.

Unless I wait a year, probably.