are the worst. They are evil devils based in trickery. I come to work
still spinning and I feel creative and quick-witted. I smile at everyone
that comes into the store and I go the extra mile to give everyone
something nice to leave with. Whether it be, "Have a good day,"
or "Enjoy this weather." On a normal day, I might have
trouble consistently dredging up the motivation to greet and be kind
to certain cocksuckers of this little world of convenience. Not today.
Today I joke with the regulars. I run outside to help put air in a
lady's tire, while I have a minute. I wish all the chronic gamblers
good luck with their lottery tickets. I'm compassionate and
complimentary to the really strange ones who come in and stumble around
before leaving without a purchase. And then something goes terribly
wrong. The gallon of beer in my stomach has long gone sour. If I had
internal flies, they would buzz around in shiny, green cacophony,
and distribute their filth throughout my bowels. I now must rush over
to shut the radio off because if he fucking sings "Who do you
love" one more goddamn time, I might just come unglued and twist
this next customer's head off his neck. There is too much noise.
Too many people are asking me stupid questions, and not waiting until
the person ahead of them moves out of the way before they reach around
and shove money in my face. They hurry in and out of here, not looking
me in the eye, and saying "gimme" this and "gimme"
that. I just want to sit down. I'd really like to read some
of this new book I brought with me. Man, do I have to pee. Yeah,
but this is work. You do come here to work. I know that. I know.
But, if this fucking guy would just hurry up and pick his fucking
lottery numbers, I could run back and use the restroom. But, instead,
he talks to himself. He stands there with his gaze focused on the
numbers sheet and says, "Uhhh...uhhh...umm...uhh." I have
a flare of anger, and I can hear the sickening, meaty, smack of flesh
on flesh as my imaginary punch lands square on his cheek. That sound
has always made me sick. I heard it often in junior high, when young,
dumb humans would set prearranged times to meet up and create those
noises together. It was an exploration in ignorance. But today, I
play that sound over and over in my head, and it harmonizes with this
dumbfuck's "umms," creating quite a symphony of
displeasure, to my standards. What if I hated this job just enough.
But you do. But what if I hated it just enough, that I did
flip out? I created an artistic expression of hate for convenience
and turned it into a film at eleven, attacking customers like some
shadowy wolf-man, turning over displays and leaving a trail of bodies,
M&M's, and lottery tickets in my wake. I would be unconscious
of the twisted grin on my face and the strand of drool running out
of the corner of my mouth. My eyes would dart back and forth, protecting
my every angle, but with confidence. I would run to the canopy over
the gas pumps, and effortlessly shimmy up the pole. On top, I would
howl and beat my chest, daring anyone to come and clean up this mess.
Oh God, my head is spinning. The guy
who had accidentally picked up a Mensa test instead of a lottery ticket
is long gone. It has gone quiet again, and I'm really feeling
tired. I know that in a while, the cars will all come back, and the
cattle will file in and out, allowing me to build up again to a frenzied
fantasy. Until then, I think I'll drink as much water as possible
and just hang out.