I was floating in a stage of nothingness—a lackadaisical reverie. I would get up, brush my teeth, go to work, steal a donut from the Krispy Kreme case beside the counter, and so my day would progress. Routine boredom. Each day was the same, never changing, never faltering. And though my mind was blank, the teeniest subconscious of my brain kept wondering, kept wishing that I would see her again.
On minimum wage, I could hardly afford mediocre luxuries like gas, let alone the cars to fill it in, or even new socks. So I took to darning, which I realize now I would have been made fun of only four eyes ago when I was back at Chilton. Darning my socks in candlelight (courtesy of the ever-friendly landlord above me who turns off my electricity) and listening to Frank Sinatra over my battery-operated CD player. It was a typical night in the Tristan Dugrey house, as I had been promoted to daylight hours. Eight in the morning to three in the afternoon. What a delight.
I saved up my wages, typically making $234 a week, when working the maximum 40 hours, of course. But everything was so damn hard! Rent was $200 a month, high way robbery may I add, and then there was the general cost of living. Sure, I could go for a couple days without food and even use the restrooms at the nearest McDonalds. But it just didn't seem to work. And I still had to pay back the rent I hadn't paid for the past three months—totaling to a whopping $750. Yes, my crappy landlord tacked on interest.
But then one day it all fell into place. I began to search in the classifieds for a second job, when I found it. When I found her.
I became a barista for a local coffee shop. It was a chic, modern place equipped with art work and bluesy music. What I signed up for was a weekend shift at the actual coffee shop, and then during the week I'd work a kiosk on the Yale campus. Sounded good enough, and the pay was a little over minimum wage.
It was a Tuesday; Tuesday had always been a good day in my opinion. I had a green visor on, to shade my eyes from the wicked September sun. It was humid as hell, and I hadn't the slightest why anyone would want to buy hot coffee on such a hot, hot day. In fact, all morning long no one had even glanced my way. Until a certain little brunette stumbled my way.
She had a stack of library books in her arms, and a cell phone settled between her right shoulder and ear, teetering precariously over her shoulder. I noticed the bump in the sidewalk before she did I suppose, as she tripped over it and landed flat on her face. By the time I had kneeled down to pick up a book, she had gathered up the others and fled the scene after uttering three words.
"God damn it."
1/15/07
