Authors: Victoria Sawyer
“Here’s the paste and the yeast is right over there,” I say,
pointing across the aisle.
“Thank you so much,” he says with another devastating smile,
his eyes appraising me again for a moment, sending a thrill of sexual
excitement coursing over me.
“You’re welcome,” I answer, backing away down the aisle,
then finally turning away, not really wanting to leave him there. I imagine
that there is some kind of rubber band between us, some pull that makes me want
to stay by his side. He’s magnetic. The kind of person who captivates me,
pulling me in, making me drool. I seriously hate myself, because I swear I
invent stuff, imagining that more passed between me and someone else than has
actually occurred. But for some strange reason I feel like he could mean
something to me and this could be a missed connection. But self-conscious,
unsure me can’t do anything else but leave.
As I exit the aisle, I look back once, to see if he’s
finding what he’s looking for, at least that’s why I tell myself I’m looking,
but when I do he’s watching me, his eyes on my face for a moment until his head
snaps back around to study the shelves as soon as my eyes light on his. He’s
smiling, one corner of his mouth hitched up a bit higher than the other. I
smile to myself, hoping that he’ll come in the store again sometime to cash his
check.
As Michelle lets me back into the booth, she grins at me,
her eyes sparkling, fanning herself with one hand.
“That guy was so g-damned hot,” she breathes, pushing her
curly hair back from her face as she resumes her place on the opposite side of
the booth. I favor her with a wicked grin and then, noticing a customer
approaching out of the corner of my eye, I go back to counting my drawer.
It’s a busy hour before the line finally slows down again
and several guys from the store stroll to the booth to pick up pay checks. Will
McKenzie pulls up to my window with a huge grin for me, his slightly crooked
teeth and freckles giving him an innocent but attractive look.
“Hello, gorgeous,” he says with a tiny come-hither smirk,
leaning his big body against the counter in his dark blue smock from the
grocery department, his brown eyes sincere and flirty.
“Hello yourself,” I reply, unable to hold my mouth back from
moving into a smile.
Will is so damn nice, why oh why can’t I like him?
Why
must I always be interested in guys who are so terribly out of my league? It’s
the curse of my life, always wanting to attract the hot assholes and not the
cute nice guys.
“I waited all night so you could give me my paycheck,
Vicky,” he says, his face earnest, his eyes kind yet hinting at more than just
friends.
“Oh really,” I reply, arching an eyebrow. I like to flirt
with Will. He’s safe, the kind of guy who is really nice even though he
sometimes jokes about sex or dirty things. I grab the box of paychecks and
search for his until finally I pull it out and hand it to him through the
window.
“Thanks, babe,” he says with a wink, immediately ripping off
the paper sides to see what he’s made for the week. “Oh yeah, just enough to
finish the repairs on my motorcycle,” he says, signing his name to the back
with a flourish and pushing the check back at me so that I can cash it.
“You know, Vicky, the guys out back are starting a ‘hottest
girls in the store’ list and I’m voting for you as number one,“ he says,
leaning back, large hands outstretched on the counter, his eyes twinkling.
“What?!” I reply, a little shocked, yet slightly pleased at
this revelation. “They have a hottest girls list? You’re shitting me,” I say
with a grin that I can’t seem to hide, just a little more than flattered that
Will wants me to be number one. Michelle walks up behind me at the window and
grins at Will.
“Oh yeah, Split Pea, who else is gonna be on the list?” she
asks, recalling a nickname we had given Will when we had first met because he
was always seen stocking the cans in the veggie aisle.
“Well, booth beeotch,” he says, poking fun at Michelle,
“You’re not gonna be on the list if I have anything to do with it, but I do
know that Oliver from Produce has a mega huge thing for you,” he says with an
evil smile because Oliver is an older guy who always gets made fun of for his
perfectionism and grouchy ways.
“Will!” says Michelle, waving her clenched fist at him
through the window, “You are just fricken hilarious.”
Will grins as I come back with his money to count it back to
him. The twenties, tens and ones move smoothly through my hands as I count out
loud, practice having made perfect since I’ve been working in the booth for two
years now, plus it doesn’t hurt that I’m not nervous around Will like I am with
hotties like Jared.
“Wow, you do it so much better than Michelle,” he says, his
eyes skittering over to Michelle’s side of the booth to see if she’s noticed
that he’s giving her shit. Michelle rolls her eyes.
“Get outta here, Creamed Corn, before I call the manager on
your lazy ass,” she says as Will ambles away from us with a backward wave for
me.
“So,” says Michelle, immediately turning toward me, “you
gonna give him a chance?” I pause for a moment, imaging my kiss with Will over
the summer. It had felt brotherly, so not-sexy.
“Honestly, Michelle, I can’t. Will is a great guy, but I
don’t feel the spark for him. You remember what happened over the summer, I
just didn’t feel anything.” Michelle leans back on her side for a moment,
facing me, her arms crossed over her chest, her expression serious.
“What about that Brad guy you were crushing on, what ever
happened to him?”
“Oh God, don’t get me started. He’s an asshole. I think he
honestly didn’t want anything to do with me anymore because I wouldn’t
immediately have sex with him. I’m kinda over it, although I do feel bad. I
feel like he never really liked me at all, he just wanted a piece of ass.”
Michelle laughs, “Guys suck, Vic, best to learn that now!”
she says turning back to her window as the manager rounds the corner of an
aisle. We look busy for a few minutes and then she turns to me again.
“You going to Anne’s party tomorrow night? Supposed to be a
rager. I hope I feel better ‘cause I want to go.”
“Yeah actually I do want to go,” I reply with a naughty grin
imagining Anne’s alcohol stash, the guys that will be there, the dancing. I
need to get drunk ASAP. I need that escape. Michelle just grins back at me, a
knowing look passing between us as we both think about the last time we got
drunk together and how wild we were. A manager heads up the stairs next to the
booth to the second floor office so we’re quiet and get back to work. I’m
relieved that for a few moments I was able to distract myself from my ever
present lurking anxiety.
Several hectic hours have already flown by when Michelle
informs me that she’s feeling much worse. After a trip to the bathroom she
tells me she’d like to leave after she covers my lunch break. I reluctantly
agree because there is nothing else I can do. I really don’t want to be left
alone with my crazy ass mind in this tiny booth, but I can’t force Michelle to
stay if she isn’t feeling well. I know that if the tables were turned and I
wasn’t feeling well, Michelle would gladly let me leave early even if it meant
more work for her. And I know that I would be very appreciative.
#######################
The break room out back above the loading dock is empty when
I arrive swinging my recently purchased frozen pasta dinner in its thin white
plastic bag. I pull back the film cover and pop it into the filthy microwave with
a frown and plop down onto one of the cracked red plastic chairs.
Oh fuck
.
Now I’m focusing on the overpowering feeling of panic about being alone for the
rest of the night in the booth. My heart starts thudding and a flush of heat
washes over me at the thought. It’s times like these that I wish I wasn’t so
insane. I wish I knew what was wrong with me and I desperately wish that
someone else was on lunch now to try and take my mind off my impending
imprisonment and God forsaken anxiety. I’m not in the mood to feel trapped
tonight.
I try to get my mind off my terror by watching the numbers
count down on the microwave: 1:12, 1:11, 1:10, but my fingers start fidgeting
in my lap, my heart racing, breathe coming in gasps.
Shit
. When I’m
faced with a truly distressing situation my weak attempts to trick myself or
focus on other things are usually lessons in futility and tonight isn’t any
different.
Don’t. Don’t panic now, don’t freak out, don’t feel sick, it will
only make things worse
. Why must I make myself miserable? Why must I be the
craziest bitch in the world? I literally hate my life.
I press my hands against my sore belly, trying to stop it
from flip flopping around inside me. If only I didn’t make myself miserable by
getting nervous and feeling sick, it’s like I do this to myself. It’s
ridiculous. I’m ridiculous.
Crazy, crazy, crazy.
I take several deep breaths until the microwave beeps and I
jump up to pull my steaming lunch from the red splattered interior. Back at the
table, I pick at my food, moving the pasta around in the plastic tray. I don’t
really feel like eating even though I’m pretty hungry, I worry that it will
only make my stomach distress worse. But at least I bought a few granola bars
that I can sneak in the booth when there is a lull in the line of customers.
I think back over all the things I’m supposed to accomplish
this weekend. There’s tons of laundry to do, my car desperately needs an oil
change and an interior cleaning if there’s time, my homework for the next week
is outrageous with a take-home exam, a 10 page paper and tons of reading. There
is so much to think about, so much to accomplish and I’m tired and drained. I
try to turn my thoughts to other things, recalling what Will had said about the
“hottest girl in the store” list. It feels good to think that guys in the store
think I’m attractive. At least someone does, I think, imagining all my failed
attempts at relationships lately.
Then my thoughts turn to Jared full-force, the hottest guy
I’ve seen in a long while. I spend a little time fantasizing about what it
would be like to kiss him, touch his body, be near him. It’s almost
incomprehensible that I would ever have the chance to do so and I know if I did
I’d be painfully nervous and self-conscious. He's the kind of guy who makes me
tongue tied, he makes me feel so damn inadequate, but he is so perfect, so
utterly my type. I’ve begun to notice that I have a type and it isn’t blonde,
blue-eyed Brad. I’m beginning to realize that my huge crush on him and belief
that we should be together is completely wrong. Right now, my type is tall,
dark, handsome, with a gorgeous grin and a killer body.
Yeah, who doesn’t
want that type?
Before I know it, the minute hand of the break room clock
has ticked by 25 minutes and soon it will be time to clock back in and resume
my duties in the booth. I take a quick trip to the bathroom, hoping I won’t
have to ask to go again before the night is out, and then head back up front,
threading through customers and the long, multicolored aisles of food stuffed
shelves, desperately trying to calm my racing thoughts.
Every step brings me
closer to doom
. I’m obsessed with the thought of being stuck inside that
box for the rest of the night.
As the door closes on Michelle’s back, I think,
fuck that
sounds like the slamming of a jail cell
and I feel the panic grip me,
tight. It feels unreal, as if the world is not tangible, but ghostly, blurry
and slightly out of focus.
Oh God no
. I grip the edge of the counter to
hold myself upright. My heartbeat is everywhere at once, slamming through my
veins, hot and jittery. I blink, trying to bring reality back into focus,
trying to banish the other-worldly feeling that is darkening my vision. I want
to scream out at Michelle, “Don’t leave me!” but I know I can’t, I know it would
seem crazy if I were to do something like that, so I just stand there,
quivering like a leaf in a stiff breeze, my body on fire, the heat flowing,
rushing over me in waves.
Faaacck, this sucks
.
A customer approaches and I groan inside, my self-defeating
mantra zipping through my mind on overdrive…
I. Am. Crazy. Repeat. I. Am.
Crazy. Repeat
. I wrap one arm around my middle and lean into the counter,
hard, to steady myself and stop the churning razorblades in my gut. I try to
smile. God, I hope no one can tell what’s going on inside my freakish head. I
barely hear the request made of me, something about a return and I turn to the
register, my hands automatically moving over the keys, until the drawer pops
out and I’m able to count out the change that is necessary.
Thank God I can work on autopilot, although it’s extremely
difficult because the trapped feeling is threatening to knock me on the ground
and step on my throat so I can’t breathe.
Let it be over
, I pray, trying
to focus on the work by pulling out a huge stack of checks to add on the adding
machine. But my fingers just stumble over the keys, making mistakes left and
right and I sigh. I’m useless right now. I need to get swallowed up in busywork
so I can get some blessed relief for my strained mind and body but of course my
fingers won’t seem to work.
Customers keep coming up to the booth and once in a while
I’m capable of forgetting, of getting so caught up in rushing around printing
lottery tickets, paying out money for scratch tickets, processing returns that
I forget to worry. It never lasts long, my sick mind is quick to remind me that
I am trapped and probably
legally insane
.
All of a sudden after a customer leaves my line with his
lottery tickets and stamps, my stomach seizes up, gripped so tight that I know
I need to use the restroom. I’m churning and struggling inside, blistering hot,
out of control, my thoughts thundering.
You are trapped, Victoria. You can’t
leave. You will be sick all over the floor and embarrass yourself. You will
scream, you might throw a tantrum right here. You might cry. You might make a
spectacle. You might pass out, or pee your pants, or vomit, or shit, or fall
down and not be able to get back up. You might talk nonsense, you might die. You
might reveal the fact that you are totally insane to everyone in the store and
you will never be able to show your face again. Try to fight it, but you know
it will win, you know your own crazy will keep you under its boot, suffering,
terrified, sick.