Sign My Guestbook View My Guestbook
November 28, 2000
I stagger out of bed and into the bathroom.
The bathroom lights are too harsh for my sleepy brain so early in the morning, harsh enough to warrant showering in the dark. I don't bother to shave my legs or armpits, forget vanity today. My head pounds with a hangover so I chew two aspirin and two Gravol to keep them down. I don't even bother to dry my hair. It'll only get wet in the rain anyway.
I pull on my clothes and head out the door. I've already missed the first bus and I still have to run to catch the second one. By the time I get there I'm soaking wet because I've forgotten my umbrella again. I have to squeeze to the back of the bus because it's packed with teenagers on their way to school and I want to gag because the bus is filled with that wet adolescent, too much hair gel, teenage angst smell and no one will take a moment to even crack a window. To take my mind off the smell I chew two more aspirin and read, reread, and then discard the advertisements above the bus windows.
I wander into work, trying my best to look inconspicuous, knowing full well that Ted's going to ream me out because I'm late again. And all the part-timers will shrug and laugh because for them this isn't a real job anyway, just something that looks good on a university application or gives them extra money to spend at The Gap�. But the full timers, the women who've made bagging groceries their career, the forty-somethings, married-divorced, two kids, three kids, five kids, with a mortgage to pay and breasts that sag, well, they'll all roll their eyes and shake their heads like they knew all along. Which is what they do anyway, even when I am here, even when I'm on time. They love to roll their eyes and shake their heads and imply that I won't last the day and by four o'clock Ted'll call me to his office to talk about teamwork, commitment and sacrifice. I sneak to my cash and try not to think about it.
This woman and her bawling kid come charging to my till so I tell them welcome and good morning in a perfectly pre-recorded robotic voice that took me all summer to get down right.
"And make sure you put the eggs on top," the woman tell me, except I'm not really listening so I ask her to repeat it.
"Put the eggs on top," she says louder, "Last week you put them on the bottom and by the time I got home they were all broken."
I place her mini carton of eight eggs in a separate bag, wrap them tightly and then place them in yet another bag. I raise my eyebrows at her for approval.
"I had to waste four bucks in bus fare to come back to exchange them and your manager wouldn't even reimburse me for it," she goes on.
I stare at her incredulously. She squabbles over four dollars in lost bus fare as I ring through eight dollars and seventy-five cents worth of tabloid magazines, one of which houses the glaring headline: Read your cat's thoughts!
"I could have launched a formal complaint, Ronna," she reads my name off my name tag, "But I didn't, so I would consider myself lucky if I were you."
I roll my eyes so that only her crying kid can see. He appears not to notice.
"You kids think you're so smart," she continues, "Well, you're not. I used to have your job. Don't think you're something you're not."
Stupid tears sting the back of my eyes so I quickly turn away and rip her bill from the register. She doesn't even bother to elaborate; she just snatches the receipt out my hand, grabs her groceries and drags her screaming kid behind. I watch them leave through a curtain of tears.
And then you call me. One of the part-timers in customer service comes on over the loud speaker to tell me I�ve got a call, so I put up the Next Register Please sign and head to the back office.
You say you�ve only called to tell me to bring home some milk because we�re out, and to remind me that we�re supposed to go to the movies tonight and to ask how my night was last night. You say you would�ve waited up but I stayed out so late and you had to be up early for school. You tell me you miss me and you love me and not to forget the milk and to enjoy my day at work.
As if on cue Ted appears from nowhere and shoots me a menacing glare, �You were late again,� he tells me as he brushes past, �And your break was over five minutes ago.�
He heads up the stairs to his private office with a bottle of sparkling cider from aisle five tucked under his arm that he�ll spike with Peach Schnapps.
�I�ve got to go,� I tell you, �I�ll see you at home.�
And we hang up.
I keep a picture of you in the pocket of my uniform since we�re not supposed to keep personal stuff in our lockers. It�s from that day we went to Playdium in Mississauga. It�s one of the last few times I remember you actually being a regular little kid, instead of the pre-teen, old enough to shop at LaSenza Girl� junior miss that you�ve become.
You know how it is when things get bad. When I feel like if I could go back to when I was sixteen and the doctor said You know, Ronna, if you�re going to have an abortion you have to do it now, because by next week it�ll be too late, that I would just say, Okay, let�s do it.
It well may be that in a difficult hour, like that time my car was repossessed or the day your father died, that I would be willing to give you up.
It well may be that if I was given the opportunity to take it all back, to do it all over, or to make it all go away, that I would be willing to sell your love for a college degree. Or trade the memory of that Playdium day for peace.
It well may be, but I do not think I would.
Your creased and worn picture tucked into my grocery store uniform reminds me that it�s not so bad. It�s not so bad at all.
Copyright 2000 Halima Thompson
Contact me Sign My Guestbook View My Guestbook
Popular (free) Web Hosts Writing HTML
Autobiography
Story Directory
Links
News and Updates