I hate watermelon sharks. They never actually have a peg in the candy aisle, they’re always in the display case with a big bright yellow and red arrow pointing at them screaming that they’re a new item even though I’ve definitely been putting them there since the beginning of the summer. The pegs are so low that I’ve resorted to sitting crisscross applesauce on the tiled floor that used to be white with the box on my lap to systematically shove three bags on each peg. I could be methodically checking off tasks on the three page nightly to-do list if the daytime manager actually had time-management skills, God knows Jay isn’t getting anything done in the twenty-minute lapses between customers.
BUZZZZZZZ. BUZZ. BUZZ.
Take a chill pill, Jay! The buzzer is there to alert a co-worker out of earshot that you need help; I’m literally two feet from the checkout. I can see that you have three people in line and by the company policy that is too many; however, I can’t say precisely how many more people it would have taken me to get up of my own free will to help.
Smile. Remember the voice inflection. “Hi, how are you doing today?”
“Blue American Spirits.” Alright, straight to the point, ignore the pleasantries. I can respect that.
“Can I see an ID please?” My arm reaches the fourth row up, left side, three packs in from the left.
“Um, no. Those aren’t right. I want blue.” Oh right, I forgot. When sassy little teenage girls say they want blue American Spirits to clog their lungs with tar, they mean light blue, my bad.
“ID, please.”
Hair flip. Eye roll. A huff and puff. Seriously? You look younger than me, hun. I’m not going to lose my job just because you’re not willing to put in the effort of looking through your overflowing purse for some form of identification. Here it comes, forty pound designer bag on very unstable counter – some guy literally threw three eight-pound bags of ice onto it last week and cracked it down the middle. Take your time, sweetheart. Your wallet has to be in there somewhere, right? I mean, you were planning on paying some – Oh, good there it is! Computer says you’re not underage, congrats. Bye, bye, now.
Oh, would you look at that? My finger is bleeding. Must’ve been those frickin’ watermelon sharks. I swear, cardboard boxes, envelopes with tuition bills that remind me I need to drown myself in another $4,000 of student loans, and essays with careless coffee stains, basically all tree products are determined to draw blood from my hands. And to think they only pay a measly nine dollars an hour to work in this hell hole. I just want to pay for an education that may or may not get me out of here; it shouldn’t be so hard. Better find a band-aid.
“Excuse me ma'am, do you work here?”
No, I just really enjoy wearing khakis and a blue collared shirt with a strategically placed nametag that says ‘Holiday’ on it. Deep breath, smile. “Yep. Can I help you with something?”
“Could you tell me where the milk is?”
“Right over there,” point with profusely bleeding finger to cooler door labeled ‘MILK.’
BUZZZZZZZZZ. BUZZ. BUZZ. BUZZZ. Well, hopefully, khakis won’t stain from the blood.
“What’s up, Jay?” There are exactly zero people checking out right now, in fact, there are zero people in a one-hundred-yard radius from the store right now.
“Hey. I really need a smoke. Be back in a minute.”
Fine. Abandon me and my blood soaked finger to stand here uselessly for five minutes. At least I can breathe a sigh of relief that the night is almost over, but then my mind wanders to that tuition bill that will be there to greet me when I get home. Maybe I’ll just reopen the soon-to-be scab on my finger and give them a blood sacrifice instead of a check. But for now, I’ll just let the fluorescent lights saturate a little deeper into my skin while you fill your body with the lovely fumes of rat poison.
