An elderly lady comes up to purchase Fight Club.
I’m sorry, this is an R rated DVD, I’m going to need to see some ID.
She looks over her thick framed glasses and props herself up to the counter with her walking stick to verify a possible misunderstanding.
I’m kidding, of course. You’re really old.
It takes a lot to see things from my perspective. I never thought I would reach such coveted heights in my workplace without so much as blinking an eyelash; because it’s not just customer service, you know. It’s not just day in, day out;may I help you, ma’am … Monotonous rambling you may see on those TV ads. Every time I’m able to defuse a co-worker’s issue I get the satisfaction someone would get from a really good foot massage. It’s not about recognition, but rather knowing that every day when you wake up to go to an over-worked, underpaid discount store, it will become your life sentence, until you find the nerve to use that backbone and escape the hellhole you call work. And that, you see, is the life of a counter girl.
Now, I don’t want to hear your sighs of pity or empathy. Nobody can empathise with a counter girl, not even a counter girl. The funny thing is, we all think we’re unique but really, everyone fits a very stereotypical and predictable mould. Take myself, for example. I am the “anywhere-but-here” girl. You know the type. We see our inverted world through self- pitying eyes and comment on it ironically, at the risk of taking ourselves too seriously. All of us have other ambitions, but they matter little to the people who actually take pride in discounted merchandise. It isn’t always harmonious living, but we find ways of amusing ourselves.
Allow me to paint a picture.
In the heart of the city lies a little yellow store with isles of promise as far as the eye can see. People come in but they never go out, at least not with the same sense of hope; for you see, this magical basement is also a death trap, sucking away the life of any twenty-something with a hope of a dream that does not involve customer service. For those of us without aspirations, however, here are the pre-requisites for working at CD Kingdom.
- You must have at least three piercings (loss of points for navel)
- One tattoo (additional points for tramp stamp)
- Dress like you are either
a) Going to a gig
b) Going to bed
c) Just out of bed
d) All of the above
*a general distain for the human population is also a requirement.
And thus begins the dream….
Monday – Perks
Five minutes to go, I am running to work wearing half of my shoe and wolfing down an apple pie. As I avoid eye contact with Nina on my way in, I hear her huffing to Chloe of my near tardiness. Doesn’t matter, I’m on time and, meanwhile, Adam’s looking at me knowingly because he’s certain I have something to tell him; something that can’t wait for our lunch break. On the counter, I lift my sign without saying a word. Of course, the tension with Nina could be cut with a cleaver. Something about the counter, which most guys would never understand, is the subtleties of female conflict. Also, what the female sex seldom get credit for is our ability to multitask.
Fun fact: DID YOU KNOW? There is a type of woman who can loath your existence and crush your spirit, while simultaneously serving customers with a frozen smile.
If this were an art, Nina would be considered the Michelangelo of petty misconceptions. The beautiful thing is, she doesn’t have a reason to hate me, yet she chooses to go against what human beings would consider civil, just for kicks I guess. Interwork co-existence is over-rated. You heard it here first. I don’t let her get to me most days. Besides, I have more important things to do, involving the work phone and my relational guru, Adam.
“Dude, last night?”
“I know, it all happened so fast. I barely got a chance to fill you in.”
“Well, it’s dead, now. Anything?”
“So … it was a date.”
Standing next to me is a spiteful Nina with her finger sitting comfortably on the receiver of the phone.
“Oh, hey. Didn’t see you there”
So this is what it’s like to stare death in the face.
“How was your weekend?” I ask.
“I don’t know if you realise, Leah, but work phones are meant for customer calls only.”
“What makes you think that wasn’t a customer calling about my date?”
That was probably a bad move.
The phone rings.
“Thanks for calling CD Kingdom, how may I direct your call?” Nina blurts out after striking like a ninja to answer it.
“One moment please. Now, see if you can’t actually do your job today.”
“Well, I’ll try but your make-up appears to be scaring off all the customers.”
I could tell this was one of those moments that if I’d only got a chance to do it over again, I could avoid her wrath. REWIND.
“Now, see if you can’t actually do your job today.”
“I’ll sure try. Thanks, Nina.”
Nailed it. Now back to work. I know that today will start well, because there is no sign of Mr Chase; one of our regulars who holds western movies behind the counter for weeks on end, and has an odd obsession with Chloe. She humoured him at first, laughing at his jokes, treating him like he was her special guy (allowing us all to cringe), but now she takes to hiding, the somewhat mature approach. It now seems I’ve spoken too soon.
“Hiya, sweet,” declares Mr Chase, from the top of the stairs to anyone who happened to make eye contact with him. Today it was me. Rats.
“How are you, Mr Chase? Picking up any DVDs?”
“No, no, love. Gotta wait until pension day.”
“Of course, of course.” So what are you doing here?
I can tell his darting eyes are scanning the store for any trace of Chloe as he sniffs the counter and holds an unconvincing smile. Ordinarily I would conclude our conversation and force him to give up hope, but today, I’m feeling a little playful. I page Chloe to the front and watch his eyes light up, yet no response. She’s playing hard ball. Once more, I page, this time for a manager’s pin. She can’t resist what the sense of power does to her ego and I watch her excitement plummet when she sees that the only person wanting her digits is the elderly man in front of me.
I’ve often wondered why counter girls are the unlucky ones who barely get to escape a bad customer. Sure, we don’t get much contact time with them but a lot of crazy can go down in sixty seconds. Take for example, CD licker. Yes, that’s the endearing name we gave him after Johnny in music caught him fanning his tongue with CDs and then purchasing some of them. That’s right, not all, some. We can’t escape that. Someone has to serve that CD-sampling nutcase. My work life is often brightened by the folk who think themselves whimsical to bring hilarity to the counter. What they don’t know is that we fashion together a “Tally of Idiots”, that notes any person incapable of human interaction, bringing delight to a group of girls, sick of repetitive nonsense.
TALLY OF IDIOTS:
- Anyone who jokes that SAVINGS should better be known as “SPENDINGS” or “SLAVINGS” which you are forced to laugh at for the seventh time that day
- People who talk at the front of the line and wonder why we had to shout to get their attention
- People who don’t notice that there is a line
- Geezers who wink on their way out. Just keep moving.
- Old men who self-righteously state: “I’m sure you’ve never even heard of these guys”, as they bring Johnny Cash and Bing Crosby to the counter.
But we’re total peaches, easily won over by a simple greeting or a standard compliment. At the end of the day, counter girls are not the people who will cause the controversy. We leave that to the customers.
Tuesday – Jerks
There is rarely a day that goes by where you are not glancing at the clock, willing for the final five minutes to pass by. Today was no exception; between the hours of dub step that Frank insisted on subjecting us to, in spite of our pleas, and the socially awkward gentleman who told me I have ‘nice eyelashes’, I was rapidly pressing my feet up and down the tattered floor in sheer anticipation. But I was not so fortunate to reach liberation yet. From what I swear felt like an earthquake, I began to hear footsteps, clunking down the escalators at two minutes to closing time. In complete oblivion, Dr. Jack scurries in and dumps his many bags on the closed counter then proceeds to browse for BLUrays. He’s not even a real doctor, well at least his appearance wouldn’t hint to the faintest sign of respectable income, or the possession of a shower. He always asks me to tally up the sum of his DVDs that I am not even sure he can afford, and just when it hits the one hundred dollar mark, he asks me to spot him a dollar for bus fare. This is how an average conversation would go:
DJ: Oh, hello. How are you?
Me: Oh, you know, just waiting to go home.
DJ: Yes, well, the bus would only get here at five minutes to six so I was going to call and see if you could keep the store open a little while longer.
Me: Ah, yes. Unfortunately we have to close at six, just like every other day.
DJ: Anyway, can you tell me how much those come to; oh, actually before you do that, can I use your phone? Have to make a really important phone call.
DJ: Don’t suppose I could trouble you for a drink of water – what did you say your name was?
Me: Leah. It’s Leah, Dr. Jack.
DJ: Yes, of course, Leah. How are you, Leah?
Me: I am just fine.
DJ: Now, Leah. I have had to run here all the way from the bus stop, Leah, and I’m just about five dollars short, what do you suppose we can do about this?
Me: Well, you could buy one less BLUray. That’s always an option.
DJ: Say, Leah, is Chloe around?
Me: She’s gone home.
DJ: Well, where’s your manager, Rory?
And this goes on for some time until Rory caves, gives him what he wants, plus a little extra chump change and releases the insufferable Dr. Jack back into the wild. I was particularly nervous today because I needed Rory to leave before he saw the six-pack I had hidden beneath the pile of DVDs by my legs.
Every night when the managers leave, we bribe the security guard with a pack of cigarettes and have a midnight screening in the store. It’s generally your cult classic; Rocky Horror Picture Show, or Pulp Fiction, but tonight we couldn’t go past Batman Forever; you know the one, before it got outrageously animated and George Clooney’s nipples were included in his bat suit. There are normally about a dozen of us, unfortunately Nina is there, but we pay each other the respect by disregarding the other person’s existence out of work hours. It’s been working pretty well so far.
“Hey, Veneras, pass me another beer.”
Ah, Brad. He’s the dark horse of the group, and the object of every girl’s desire. The very fact that he is unattainable makes him all the more delicious.
Rule of Thumb: When guys objectify women and pursue taken girls, they are scum. Seriously, lock up your daughters from womanising jerks like that. However, girls do it and they are adorable, they are charismatic and just slightly deranged. The person most renowned for her selective hearing and general man-hunting is Chloe, who relentlessly pursues this blue-eyed fox, in spite of his unavailability and general disengagement.
“Leah! Beer!” slurs a tipsy Brad.
“I’ll get it.”
Chloe hurls her eager frame over mine, reaching for a cold beer that almost shatters from the velocity of her enthusiasm.
“He’s spoken for,” I mutter in her ear, for the umpteenth time.
As we watch him guzzle down his fifth drink of the evening, we share a mischievous look of contentment. Here’s the deal with Brad, and let the record show I am speaking from a non-involved third party perspective. After five beers, he’s fair game. For you see, drunk Brad is a whole other story. He’s like Brad’s alter ego. Let’s call him “Rad”. When Rad comes out to play, there is just no stopping him. He’s animated. He’s flirtatious. Hell, he’s rad. It could be why Chloe is encouraging his consumption on this particular evening. She has honed in on the one secret weapon that assists her in the battle of disinterested men and will now proceed to use this to her advantage. And after weeks, even months of Rad leading her on, Chloe is toying with the idea of taking either one of them home. I doubt she considers the consequence of going to bed with drunk Rad and waking up to sober Brad and as a loyal confidant, I keep her level, and maybe humour her … but only a little.
“C’mon, Leah. Let it be tonight. I am so sick of you shoving reality in my face. I’d rather have his face, in my face.” She scrunches her nose and raises her own pony necked beverage to my lips, then hers.
“Okay, you’re wasted, and he’s clearly wasted. And you know what that means.” She repeatedly nods her head, closing her eyes and raising her bottle to the room.
“No, you’re not listening.”
“Shhh, he doesn’t know how bad he wants me, but I’ll show him.”
“How? With your timeless tactic of stumbling into him when you are both beyond hammered?”
“Hey, hey, hey, shhh,” she whispers into my ear; breath like a baby’s arse, “Jus-s-t wash, watch and learn, my sinful minejet fred.”
Within seconds of her attempt she trips on her own foot and ungracefully drops to the feet of Rad. In one swift motion, he reacts, smiles and completely spews all over her hair before passing out in Adam’s lap. I think it’s time to call it a night and drag their sorry arses out of here.
Wednesday – Mars & Veneras
“I feel like this banana is mocking me,” mused Adam in the lunchroom, “like it’s saying ‘I’ve got something you don’t have.’”
“You need to stop envying the girth of your food and just eat it.”
“Well, now you’ve just made it dirty,” he says, tossing it onto the table.
Mars and I always eat our lunch together because he likes to live vicariously through my social life and feed off the escapades that don’t even remotely involve this place. The only thing is, we can barely find common ground to agree on, so we spend most of our time debating the need for marriage within western culture. Objectively speaking, my views highlight the romantic and traditionalist outlook; a unity of two beings, making a commitment to one another in front of their closest friends. His view is stupid.
“I don’t see the point in making that public vow with the astronomical divorce rate the way it is.”
“Oh, how the years have softened you;” I remark. “So you’re saying that even though you and Kate have been together for the better part of a decade, you live together and you call her your ‘soul mate’, there isn’t even a chance you’d wanna put a ring on that finger?”
“Nah,” he shrugs, “And I definitely don’t want kids.”
“Why would I want to pro-create?”
“Yeah, good point, between your excuse for a male exterior and the butt load of negativity you bring to the world, we’d be better off without a mini-Mars.” I duck just in time for his engorged banana to spiral past me.
“All right, just be careful, because I don’t know if anyone gave you the stork-talk but doing the deed plants a seed.” I take a proud bite from my sandwich, watching his face turn a ghostly shade of white as he considers the possibility of unwanted spawn.
“You’re not as helpful as you think, you know.”
“I was never trying to help you,” I laugh.
“Lunchbreak is over,” he says, clearing his leftovers.
“All righty, but just a little advice from your voice of reason.”
He looks at me in disapproval.
“Always, always remember – to put a sock on your cock.”
“No, but really. Use a bag for your swag.”
“Later, Leah.” Adam grins and walks away.
“Get an umbrella for your fella.”
I follow him back onto the floor. “Oh, in case you didn’t know, I’m talking about your penis!”
I only wish I had noticed my boss standing behind me.
“Leah. A word please.”
“Sure boss. How can I assist?”
“Are you able to explain to me why the DVD floor smells of vomit?” I’m instantly reminded of Brad’s face buried in a pile of his own spew, Chloe with her legs up in a stack of DVDs and broken glass beneath my feet.
“Can’t say that I can.” I shake my head, somewhat unconvincingly, searching for excuses. “Although I wouldn’t put it past the family of five we had in here earlier. Kids, right? Someone should really put a leash on those gut-chucking rug rats.” My boss sceptically raises an eyebrow and side steps my remark, long enough to notice a hung over Chloe with her forehead on the counter top. Okay, quick. Create a diversion. Oh, if I could only think of a whimsical limerick in the heat of the moment, or even an office anecdote to capture his attention. Instead I say:
“Great buns today.”
That ought to do it.
“Bands. I mean bands. The music. It is, great.”
“Mmm”— he scrunches his top brow —“what happened to the playlist that Frank chose?”
“Oh, we, I-I felt that we should play something a little less ‘teenage night club’, you know, at least for a Wednesday afternoon.” I begin to slide towards the safety of the counter. “Some of the staff complained, saying it was giving them a head ache.”
“I very much doubt it’s the music, Leah. Now, get to scrubbing.”
Yet another glamorous day fulfilled.
Thursday – Gloves Off, Claws Out
Most people think that three-thirty-itis is a state of mind, easily overcome by coffee, but I stand as a witness who believes in the existence of brain failure, and also says that those people can go to hell. I know this seems a little harsh and melodramatic; but that is the nature of three-thirty-itis. Like some sort of demon possessing your sunny demeanour, taking over your every being, bringing a hefty dose of bitch your way. Oh, speak of the devil.
“Leah, do some work. I am so sick of watching you in a pathetic slump.”
“Then look away, Nina. If you were a little busier, you wouldn’t even notice.”
“Sorry for giving a damn about my job, unlike some people.”
“Ooh, subtle. I wonder who you’re talking about.”
“Rory’s going to report you, you know. That means a written warning and yet another black mark against your name.”
I stand upright, slowly, so she doesn’t know I am affected.
“Chloe. You’re not her only little friend, you know. Anyhow I just thought I would tell you so you can call your precious Adam and arrange one last phone date.” I look straight ahead for any customer to serve, so I wouldn’t have to keep talking to her. Rory doesn’t have any control over firing me, or even reporting me. He knows all the crap that goes down in this place, hell, he’s part of it. Let him try.
“It’s a shame really.” She leans in, “I heard there was a position opening for Assistant Counter Co-ordinator. Chloe’s going to be so upset.”
“As if I want a promotion in this place, I’d rather knock my front teeth out.”
Nina laughs, but not in the way that I would normally elicit a reaction. “Rory will love to hear that. It’ll make the ‘letting you go’ speech so much easier.”
“Just leave me alone, okay? Or I’ll accidently mention your little Tuesday night booty call to Chloe.”
Thank God, my first customer in twenty minutes. I hold out my hand to their stack of CDs as I polish off my threat with a withering stare. Nina forces a ‘customer friendly’ smile and storms off.
“Man, I don’t want you to leave,” says Mars over the phone.
“Settle down. Nobody’s leaving, at least while I still have a hint of leverage over Nina.”
“What a bitch.”
“Total bitch,” I say agreeably, leaving out the latter part of my discussion with her, “I’m just going to take the high road with this one and let the chips fall where they may.”
“Ooh, chips. That’s what I’ll get for lunch.”
To my dismay, it’s not Nina’s perfectly manicured fingertip on the receiver, but Rory’s. He looks somewhat irate. I can normally divert this mood with a high five. With the energy I have left I raise my arm and see his expression worsen, so I turn it into a stretch and continue to price CDs, like the hard working employee that I am. Yeah, I didn’t think he would buy that.
“Are you trying to stir shit?”
“Well, howdy there, neighbour.”
“Leah, cut it out. You know I only play the manager card so many times, I mean you’re a good kid, but Nina’s on the war path to get you in the dog house.” That comment is far too easy to segue into the irony of that bitch. Oh the jokes I could make. Rory stops me in my tracks.
“You realise after this chance, there won’t be anymore.”
“Nah, uh. How come? Come on, Rory. I thought you had my back.”
“Out of work, I’ll remain ignorant to your games, but what happens within these walls is my responsibility and I’ve got no issue replacing your arse.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Other than a small case of laziness, there is nothing you can hold over my head. Nina, on the other hand—”
“—Will become Assistant Counter Co-ordinator and squish you like a bug. I hate to say it Leah, but seriously watch your back. This is your final warning.”
The Bitch Theory
I have this theory about girls and dogs. Both of them are very susceptible to tone. This means that you can say whatever you want to them as long as you say it in a non-threatening, docile tone, otherwise you stress them out. After Rory left I wanted to test this theory out on Chloe.
“Hey, sorry I’m late. Those fajitas did not agree with me.”
And she wonders why she’s single.
“Oh, that’s okay. I was just chatting to Rory about my leave of absence.”
“Where are you going?” she’s not really listening. I can tell. She begins the Thursday ritual of counter cleaning.
“I’m not sure yet. Possibly the employment office,” I say, still light in tone, “or McDonalds, whoever will take me, really.”
“That seems like an odd place to go for a holiday. Will you grab me a coke on your way back?” She laughs.
Knowing that pre-mixed Coca-Cola and Mexican food is her hangover remedy, I ask: “Another rough night, huh?” She looks up from her dusting.
“Don’t be mad, but I went out without you last night to watch Brad’s band play.”
“Why would I be mad?” I say, still gently spoken.
“Well, I know you told me not to, but I kissed him.”
“Really? Well, what happened?”
I was surprised. Not at the event but more so the series of events.
“He didn’t do much at first but then he kind of got into it.” She lifted the phone to dust under it. “But the thing is, I think he’s still with his girlfriend.”
Oh God, here we go.
“But I really like him, Leah. I thought it was just sex at first, you know? But he’s real deep when you can get a word out of him; and he’s funny, so insightful,”
“He will not break up with her for you.” Tone slightly firmer, this time.
“You don’t know that.”
“Yes, I do. In fact, he’s cheating on both of you with someone else.” Chloe stops dusting and looks at me as if I just told her I killed her dog.
“You’re full of shit, Leah.”
The phone rings.
“I wish I was.”
“Are you going to answer that?”
“Are you going to listen?”
“Oh, for God’s sake.” She reaches for the phone with such great force it slips out of her hand and tangles itself, hanging just above our feet.
So much for my bitch theory.
The phone rings.
Friday – Games & God
“Thanks for calling CD Kingdom. Please hold.”
I can’t believe I blurted that news to Chloe. That was real Nina of me. Oh yeah. It’s become so tense around here that I am using ‘Nina’ in place of any stupid-ass thing I do. Helps ease the burn. Meanwhile, Chloe won’t look at either of us, yet she still remains professional, answering phones and ordering us around, without maintaining eye contact. I’ve got to hand it to her; the girl knows how to do a freeze-out.
“Can you pass me a pen, please?” I flinch as the entire pencil case rockets into my side.
“Thank you. Again.” I really should have learnt the first time.
With a scrap of paper I write a note in my most apologetic hand-writing.
I leaf you.
Forget about Nina the wiener.
Be my friend again!
I even added some dumb drawings of a garden and flowers, with Nina ‘the hotdog’ pissing all over them. Chloe normally froths over my primary school art work. Today she dismissed my efforts without so much as an exhale and I watched her crumple the piece of paper in the palm of her hand and let it fall to the ground. These moods of hers aren’t frequent but on days like this I choose to take the lowest possible road and meet her silent treatment with a double-dose of silence, all the while obeying orders, answering phones and attending to customers. I decide to move to the floor to escape this immaturity and pretend (to Chloe alone) that I am not affected by this unnecessary sulk of hers.
“Excuse me, miss?” Within seconds there is a distressed customer in need of assistance. I sigh before spinning around to appear a more customer-caring Leah.
“Yes, sir. How are you?”
“Oh, just fine thank you. I’m looking for a title but I have forgotten the name of it in my old age. I’m sure you’ll get this one day.”
God, I hate those jokes. I laugh politely and make a mental note to add him to the Tally of Idiots. “I’ll do a search for you. Can you remember any key words?”
“Well, it had something to do with feet.”
“That’s right, dear.” He clears his throat. “Feet and moonlight.”
“Okay, so I guess I’ll search ‘moon feet’ and see what comes up.”
“Oh, and another thing, there was a musical part with a large percussion section.”
“Right, well we can’t really search a sound.” I say, somewhat condescendingly.
“What if I described it to you?”
This should be interesting.
“All right. Go ahead.” I say, as I watch this man’s face light up and express with great force the sound of crashing symbols and confusing sounds that all somehow appear on this one song. I take a second to compose myself at the risk of blurting laughter in his frail and vulnerable face.
“So,” I snicker, clearing my throat, “you’d like me to search ‘crash feet moon ping—’”
“Barry Manilow, Memory. That was it. Thank you for your time, miss.”
“Sure, happy to help.” He totters off into the Popular Music section while I stand completely perplexed in the middle of the CD floor.
A few hours have passed and it seems the silent treatment has caught on. It’s getting increasingly tense around here, ever since Rory stopped acting like one of us and mutated into the enemy: Management. There is no saving a person once they’ve crossed over to the dark side. He’s always siding with management even though they couldn’t care less about who works here as long as ‘the customer walks away happy’. It makes me sick to think of those head office scum, watching us all work like hamsters, caught in a well-maintained cage, running on our wheels while those dictators fill our water with cyanide and crank the dub step. Okay, I exaggerated that last bit, but I just wish someone would notice the injustice and rectify it, instead of us all turning on each other. I walk out into the lunch room to find a group of whispering employees crowd around the notice board. For a second I thought Nina might have posted some incriminating photos of me, but as I look closer I see a petition on the wall with columns of signatures below it.
“You in, Leah?” asks Adam from the centre of the crowd.
Saturday – Seedy Kingdom
It didn’t take long for Adam to get the signatures he wanted for his employee strike petition. In an ideal world we would be fighting for something with merit, something with integrity in order to really hit Management where it hurts. Instead, we are proposing they change the quality of tunes or we all sit behind the counter until they meet our requests. That’s right. No longer in a pit of lost dreams, the CD Kingdom staff are taking a stand and we’re doing it with just a dose of self-respect. Of course, alcohol helps as well. I left for work this morning, invigorated, empowered and only slightly tipsy.
Yet, I get to work and in my usual dash through the store, I don’t see Adam with his knowing smile. In fact, I don’t see him at all. Now that I’m in the back room I notice his lanyard lying helpless on the lunch table. Chloe is sitting there with two coffees; one for her and another for me. She looks at me with a forgiving smile. We both know she overreacted but neither of us will ever say it, and I knew there was a looming issue of more importance today. There is a strange air among us, and for once it’s not Nina’s fault.
“He’s gone,” says Chloe after explaining that the entire game plan blew up in our faces.
“Gone?” If Adam is the first to go, I dread to think what chance the rest of us goons have in this place.
“It’s Rory. He finally snapped and turned us all in. He’s done it, Leah. We’re all screwed.”
“It can’t be that bad. So, Management didn’t go for the strike idea. We didn’t anticipate them loving it.”
“No, he ratted us out. We’re all on tape. The movie nights, captured. Shit. Fan. Faeces. Everywhere.” Chloe begins to flail her arms outward to illustrate the level of shit we’re all covered in. I start to laugh until the reality hits me. Screw this. I’m not scared of that two-faced weasel, one-time loser, all-time suck-up, Rory. I’ve still got my buzz, and a slight swagger in my step. He’s a dead man. I take one defiant sip from my scolding hot coffee that I did not realise was so hot, and briskly leave the room at the risk of ruining this moment with a girlish squeal. I march to the office door and swing it open without even thinking and declare the words “I quit.” This would have been way more effective had the room not been empty. However, Rory was standing in the isle behind me and heard everything.
Sunday – Game Over
Oh, yeah. I am totally fired. But if anyone asks, I quit.
And thus begins the dream….
Published by NoiseMedium 2016