Notes: The song at the end is by Jim Croce. The title is from a Rufus Wainwright song. For Speedrent: Challenge 229.
Special Thanks: LondonBelow for the encouragement, and EvilEatingSanta for beta-ing.
Warnings: Boy smooching and Vietnam vets, seperately of course.
Disclaimer: I don't own RENT.
"Right here! See! Five for ten dollars! You overcharged me 85 cents!" I fight back the eyeroll that should be targeted in her direction, watching a look of complete victory settle on her face, before sighing and repeating myself for seemingly the tenth time.
"I'm not allowed to open the drawer without the manager's key, I'm really sorry but you'll have to go to Customer Service and tell them what you told me."
This is usually the point in the exchange where a huff is let out and a practically evil death glare is fixed on me. People hate to spend five minutes waiting on a line if they can hassle someone younger into doing it for them. It seems pretty random to me how adults manage their time, considering that she has been arguing with me for almost as long as it would have taken her to go to Customer Service when I first explained it. Personally, I hate waiting on lines and would much rather cut my losses and lose the handful of change and get on with it. Call me spoiled or lazy, whatever, but I'm not the one making an ass out of myself over a sum not large enough to buy a bag of chips.
In this town, especially, where it is not infrequent for a woman in pearls to pay for a bottle of baby formula and a pack of cigarettes with a hundred dollar bill. I can't get over someone whose six year old owns her own pony, to be quite so stingy over a disputed bit of change.
I look up when I hear a gasp and watch as the woman grabs her child's hand harshly and pulls him in the direction of Customer Service. I'm glad she is out of my sight but unfortunately not out of my earshot as I hear the unmistakable splitting scream of a pampered child being dragged on a mission that won't result in an end prize of cookies or a new train set. I can't help but chuckle at the visual of that horrible woman and her bratty child complaining to Jamie in the booth. She hates kids more than I do. The term "spawn of Satan" may have been used more than a few times. Raising myself on my toes, I crane my neck to catch Jamie's eyes as she glares at me and drops the change heavily in the woman's manicured hand. How she can keep a perfect nail is beyond me. My mom always looks like she just ran a marathon when I get home, but I guess pure bred icy suburban isolation and a nanny will keep you from actually touching your kids or your house.
Leaning back against the counter, I close my eyes and try to push back the images of Stepford Wives coming down the assembly line out of my head, praying to the god I don't believe in that Cindy won't end up like that. I couldn't love my mom more, but she more than fits the stereotypes laid out for her. The overprotective, conservative on the outside (but with a warm liberal center!) New York Jewish housewife. The last thing Scarsdale needs is another one of those gossiping women and their emotionally distant but financially responsible husbands. The suburbs get a hold of you and they don't relinquish their grasp until you spit out one of your own. Only then are you free to move to a nice condo in Florida, sipping MaiTais and playing shuffleboard at the community center.
"MARK! Time for your break!" Dave scurries past me, tapping me on the shoulder before switching off my aisle light , turning around and flipping on Donna's. She smiles brightly at me, when I appear at her station a moment later with a bag of sugar snap peas and a bottle of green tea, making polite small talk with me, but hurrying up so I can get out of here as soon as possible. I thank her quickly and shuffle out of the store, dropping myself down against the side wall, distant enough to feel alone even in the busy shopping center.
The high pitched grinding of metal brings my attention to a little old lady pushing a broken cart that is so erratic it looks like some of my friend's moms after a few too many mojitos at the club. Before I started working here, I would have felt moved to jump up and get her a new cart, but apparently I am a hardened shell of my former self. I watch as she shuffles her feet almost comically, head bowed, while the abrasive sound rips through my skull. I'm hoping she isn't one of those old ladies that can't hear a thing, but rather the type who complains about every little noise and feels that every eyeroll is an example of the problem with kids today. I hope she's the kind of woman that aggressively demands coupons to buy her Ovaltine and Mylanta, and that Nicole is working and will act like there is nothing wrong with giving an old woman attitude.
Don't get me wrong, I don't hate old people, but working at a supermarket really tests your limits with the population in general. It's actually really interesting to analyze what people buy, and when and how they act in the line. It really says a lot about a person and I've definitely made up stories in my head about why that teenaged girl just HAD to have a set of plastic cups and a box of paper clips fifteen minutes before closing on a Thursday. There is one old man in particular that I have his whole existence mapped out down to his supposed first grade teacher and his favorite pair of socks. He breaks my heart every time, taking his time to count out exact change, packing his grocery bag a certain way, bestowing on me a "Thanks, son", before allowing the most melancholy smile I have ever seen to cross his features. That usually puts me in a pissy resentful mood for a while, and I tend to take it out on everyone else. Why doesn't he have grandchildren to count out his change for him? Why is he all alone with his cat Wilbur, sitting in his worn out armchair, eating a grilled cheese sandwich and tomato rice soup?
Finishing off the last of my green tea , I push myself up and away from the wall and head back in, preparing myself for the mind numbing monotony of the weekday late afternoon lull. Adults are still at work, children are just getting home or staying for after school clubs or teams. The time from three to five is littered with stragglers arriving on my express line to purchase a case of beer or a pack of cigarettes, no small talk is needed and they are gone just as fast as they had appeared. These are my least favorite type of customers, even worse than the soccer moms and the underage frat boys trying to buy beer. There is no time to analyze these people or their purchases, they flicker before you, giving you nothing to work with in creating a history, only taking, never giving.
I sense a set of eyes on me, making me uncomfortable under his scrutinizing stare and firm set mouth, and I try to force out the mandatory smile and greeting. His grin twists and his eyes take on an almost deranged glow as he looks me up and down before proclaiming that my hair makes me look like a hippie and he harshly inquires if I dodged the draft. The draft? They got rid of that in the Seventies, how old does he think I am? I don't even look like I should be working here yet, let alone holding a gun and hiding in bushes in Asia. I take in the man's appearance, the weathered skin, salt and pepper buzz cut, and a rather explicit tattoo of a sultry looking mermaid running down his forearm before deciding that there is something definitely off about him. I'm bombarded with flashbacks of Uncle Jim ranting on about the war while exhibiting pretty clear signs of shellshock and post traumatic stress disorder. I know I shouldn't engage this guy, as the littlest thing could send him on the defensive, so I keep my mouth set in a gentle smile, scanning his items quickly and handing him his change.
"You were in Vietnam? That's so awesome!" I cringe when I hear Corey at the next station over, and I glance up to catch him practically bouncing on his heels with wide excited eyes. I shake my head emphatically at him, waving my hands trying to make him discontinue this conversation as quickly as possible.
The veteran turns on him, a feral grin matched with delirious eyes to create an image of a bloodthirsty savage going in for the kill. I can't help but shudder seeing Corey's face fall from his high of ignorant delight, changing quickly into that of a caged baby cow about to be sacrificed for slaughter. The other stragglers look on with almost patented suburban horror evident on their faces. As scared as I am for Corey's emotional well-being when this ordeal is over, I find myself perversely enraptured in the tales, admiring the way he lays it all out there for everyone to hear. Stories of courage and tragedy, his self-created legend and reality intrinsically linked together in a brain that reminds me of a volcano erupting. Sparks flying and fierce words are spit out with an intense velocity that prevents anyone from stepping in, even when rush hour hits, and the working women with their shoulder pads come in looking frazzled to all hell. Winding down, his thoughts begin to flow gently as he fades in and out, moving from bombastic words to muttered prayers under his breath. He lets out a sigh, looking quite pensive and withdrawn for a moment, before striding out of the store with a deliberately measured manner.
The rest of us stand in a stunned silence even after he leaves the store. I try to shake the thoughts brewing in my head, before looking up to find that my line has begun to form crazy patterns and people are getting restless.
The next couple hours are fairly normal, the stale elevator music playing like the soundtrack to my suburban monotony. I'm recognized fairly often, and by the time rush hour is over, I am loaded with well wishes to my parents and sister. I always smile slightly and promise to pass it on, knowing full well I will totally blend all their sincere messages into one lumped report back to Mom.
One of the most disgusting things about working here, the thing that even after two years still makes me squirm, is having to touch drippy packages of meat. How hard is it to put it in one of the clear plastic bags? Do you really want someone touching your broccoli after that? My obsessive-compulsive nature always breaks through, sneaking baby wipes out of my apron when the customer isn't looking. Sometimes they catch me and they give me a confused look and I just shrug and continue scanning. I guess not everyone is as concerned with cleanliness and bacteria as I am.
I wonder if this is what my dad meant when he told me that I had to grow up and gain a sense of work ethic. I have told him that I'm not a worker bee, that I'm not meant to be a slave to The Man, and that there are better ways to spend my time than working as a cashier at the local supermarket.
At around eight o clock, Dave hands me the basket with all the groceries that have been abandoned at check out over the past few hours, and closes out my station since I'm off in half an hour. It's almost like shopping in reverse, and I'm even tempted to walk backwards and speak in gibberish to really complete the feeling of life being rewound.
As I walk through the aisles, practically throwing the items back on the shelves, I can't help but think that the store reminds me of a Christmas tree on the 29th of December. The previously clean and tidy shelves have been ravaged during rush hour, the floors are sticky, and there are cans of soda littered randomly throughout the store. I feel bad for the people making minimum wage to clean up after the spoiled brats, and I begin place the items back on the shelves a little more carefully.
Turning onto the next aisle, I find Roger pretending to contemplate which type of paper towel to purchase. He turns to me with his hands on his hips, and his head cocked.
"You know Mark, they say that this is the thicker quicker picker upper, but how can we really be sure? I mean, THEY say it's true, but I bet you if I asked the Brawny man, he would say that the Bounty people are a bunch of fucking liars."
I put down my basket and walk over to him, leaning up and placing a kiss on his cheek. He quickly wraps his arms around my waist, hugging me tightly and pecking me on the lips. I move away and grab my basket and continue unloading it, Roger following at my heels.
"How did you know where I was? I wasn't even supposed to be working today." I turn around to find him eating grapes right out of the bin, and I smack him lightly before pulling him away from the fruit aisle.
"Your mom. Then Dave." Shrugging his shoulders, he starts walking to Customer Service and I follow along, wondering what he is doing. Winking at Jamie, he grabs my jacket and pushes me toward the time out station. Rolling my eyes, even though I couldn't be more excited to get out of there, I take my jacket and punch in the code. Practically running for the exit, I wave a quick goodbye to Donna, who is closing tonight, and notice Corey still leaning sullenly against his register. I pat him lightly on the back before turning and wrapping my arms around Roger, leaning into him as the fresh fall air hits our faces.
Walking home, the highway is quite crowded, cars honking at us, store fronts luminating from the inside. There are still people living outside their comfortable bubble, being forced to interract with a public they have no control over. Pushing the shaggy hair out of my eyes, Roger turns the corner and we walk down the quiet cross street, streetlights casting dark shadows across our faces, until we enter the development. I wave to Owen, the security guard, and he buzzes the gate to allow us entrance.
Attempting stealthiness, I close the heavy front door as lightly as possible and pull Roger upstairs. Passing out on my bed, I close my eyes, falling into a daze immediately. I'm surprised to hear Roger fumbling with a record for a moment, then crawling into bed. I feel him curl around me, petting my hair gently, and dropping a kiss on the back of my neck. I twist in his arms until we're pushed together and I wrap my arms around his neck, letting my head fall onto his chest.
"So how was work?" I open one eye, staring disbelievingly at him, before swatting aimlessly for a second, finally nuzzling closer.
"Shhh...too tired."
/Well, I know it's kind of late
I hope I didn't wake you
But what I got to say can't wait
I know you'd understand
cause every time I tried to tell you
The words just came out wrong
So I'll have to say I love you in a song/