The second day.

My shirt smells like raw meat. The thick blue cotton polo keeps unrolling, nearly touching my thighs. Tightening my ponytail, I glance at the clock, willing it to be 9 pm. Instead it reads 7:05 pm. Perfect. Just perfect. The night outside looks freaking awesome which makes my shift worse. Some idiot revs his motorcycle but at least it’s a summer sound. I fantasize about the smell of freshly mowed lawns. I’d give my left ear to be out there right now. Instead, I’m trapped inside. The black phone on the divider in my shitty little cashier area rings incessantly. I answer the phone, practically gagging at my own sickeningly sweet, “Hello, Hagberg’s?” A male voice answers, “Yeah, what time you open “til?” I explain to him (as I have to so many) that since it isn”t Sunday, we’re open until nine. That being sufficient, he hangs up and lets me get back to my nothingness. Man, sometimes I hate this place.

The fourth day.

It’s the fourth of July. I know what that means. Eating, eating, and more eating. I swear, every person in this town and the next one over has come in for a pound of lean ground beef and Lays potato chips. While at first they look delicious, by the end of my shift I’m rolling my eyes and thinking no one is original anymore. I love the questions customers ask too, like, “Hey! Why aren’t you outside enjoying the day?” I resist snapping back, “Because I’m at work you nitwit!” Instead I settle for the much tamer, “Aw, you know. I’m off at two so it’s not that bad,” even though the voices in my head scream otherwise. You gotta love holidays when everyone’s off of work except you, huh? Not that I could quit though. I’ve been here for a year and three months, I might as well stay and hope for a ten cent raise or some free bacon.

The seventh day

I stand in the shower clearing cobwebs from my head and envision the chaos that is to ensue. Depending on who I work with, it could feel like three hours or twelve. Of course since I’m on morning shift that can only mean one thing – or person rather: Keith. Keith is, in my professional opinion, the root of all evil. He drives me nuts, walking around like a military general, ordering everyone around every second of the day. If a higher power exists, he won’t be there today. Or any day, for that matter. His code name is Golden Eagle, though I have no idea why. Probably has something to do with the fact that he’s (hopefully) rapidly becoming extinct. Pulling into the parking lot, I realize I’m talking to myself. My inner voice, which sounds strangely like my mother says, “Just go already. It’s only a few hours, just get it over with!” Jodi is at the counter, her chin resting in her hand (clearly breaking a ton of rules).