“Must have a
pension!” Meg exclaims
“Must have a
pension?” I question warily. “Meg I
can’t write that, it’s an C-Harmony ad, it’s supposed to be romantic.”
“Romantic my
ass Annie, this is an interview for a man and a life– best to be up front about
what you want. Just write it.” She spoons out her blueberry yogurt, another
weird diet she’s on. She’s eating only
blueberries. It’s been a week and I
contemplate asking her if she’s shitting blue yet.
“It’s not
romantic. I want a romantic guy like, ya know,
picnics by a river, poetry…romance!”
“Romantic
Guy??” She annunciates this like I’m a
moron. “Listen, a picnic next to a
river dancing around with a feather up your ass is nice but it’s not real life
Annie. Pensions, a house, stock options, that kind of shit is secure! That kind
of shit is real!”
I sigh. I don’t want to write my ad here in the
depressing break-room with Prozac music and squeaking air vents. My sandwich sucks, I put too much jelly on it
and it leaked all over the bag. I open
my mouth to tell her to forget it but she continues…
“You best
nail this shit down now Annie, face it, you’re not getting any younger.” She nods her head with that ‘be all, know all’
expression she gets when she’s warning me about my future.
She’s always warning
me about my future.
“You know
what else isn’t romantic? You in twenty
years still working here under this suck bag lighting,” she gestures toward bulbs
overhead. “You in twenty years with no pension” she stabs her yogurt, “no
security,” stab, “because the goddam baby-boomers got it all!” Stab. “They got
it all Annie!” Big stab. “Twenty years after
that and your dropping dead at the register, still a cashier.” She widens her
brown eyes dramatically for effect. “You don’t even wanna know what you will look
like under this lighting by then Annie; it’s scary, Walking Dead scary!” Her teeth look blue.
Norman, the
shift supervisor walks in. A thirty-something
jerk-off with greasy hair and skin and chronic visible dry snot that moves like
little trap doors when he breaths. I
know one day snot is going to dislodge and one of us will get it. He’s power tripping after this morning’s meeting.
“Good
Afternoon Ladies!” He says with an over-animated voice. “Don’t forget your ‘Monday-Sale-Day’ Badges!
Make sure you wear em, and remember; ‘Sale days are Smile days!’” He holds his fist up and walks out almost
climaxing with corporate allegiance. We all hate him.
I look at
Meg as she spoons out the rest of her yogurt, scraping the toxic bottom of the
container. In a very serious voice I
say; “You should fuck Norman Meg, I bet he ends up with a pension.” She looks at me and we both crack up. I rip up the personal ad and decide my future
can wait until payday.
