Current mood:

accomplished

B L A C K W H I T E A N D R E D A L L O V E R
The Supervisor had a mysterious appeal. There was nothing or upstanding or special about her. She would not stick out of a crowd.

She was nothing at all like the Cashier, who fancied herself a charcoal sketch on a very pale canvas. The Cashier was talented with eyeliner, a skill she had perfected in three hours on a rainy weeknight, and she adored the way it gave her eyes a dark, seductive, smoky emergence. The Cashier liked to think she had molded her personality into a type of fashion. She loved thin, clingy-cotton shirts that made loud statements and pants with legs so wide they could be considered skirts: the more zippers, straps, pockets, and chains the better. A most recent purchase was her favorite: a pair of dangling black earrings with shiny ebony beads at the bottoms of black chains that clinked and jingled when she shook her long, dyed locks. She was certain that she was unique, dark, and poetic.

Not that They would let her wear anything like that at work.

At work, They made the Cashier dress in ugly, boring colors. Browns and blacks and colors that made her think of bathrooms: stark and disgusting. The Cashier hated that They made her tie her hair back. She had only recently dyed the underside of it BRIGHT RED and she wanted the world to see how awesome it looked, though she suspected most people, like the Supervisor, were too wrapped up in their boring, selfish lives to notice the statement it made. They also made her wear a hat, which the Cashier despised as it gave her unattractive hat hair and covered her often outgrown roots.

The Cashier was too good for her job. She needed to work somewhere that would let her express herself, somewhere were the world could see the BRIGHT RED of her passion and the dark epitome of her pain. They wouldn’t even let her wear flair on her uniform. If they had, she would have had more than forty-seven pieces. Her favorite was a pin that said I kiss girls and boys. She wore her flair on her purse, instead, and sometimes (when she managed to get away with it) on her shoes.

The Cashier thought her job was boring. She hated coffee, which she thought tasted like mud from the bottom of a river. The customers weren’t interested in the Cashier; they were only interested in themselves and their drinks or their pastries. No one ever noticed how unique she was, or asked how she was feeling, and for that, the Cashier hated the customers. Every single one.

The Cashier knew she had a problem. She just knew it. A person as unique and poetic as her was not natural. No one with as much potential as she possessed could cope with a normal life. The Cashier was depressed. She also suffered from anxiety and a number of other problems, including paranoia. This is why she hated the Supervisor so much. Clearly that bitch was talking about her behind her back. Among other things.

There were a number of times that the Cashier had zoned out at work. This was probably a part of her condition, as she was clearly unable to cope with the reality of her job. When this happened, the Supervisor would tap her on the shoulder and tell her to focus. The Cashier always waited until the Supervisor was just far enough away to roll her eyes and utter curses under her breath. What did that bitch know, anyway?

Today was a particularly bad day for the Cashier. The morning rush had started early, and a bunch of French Canadians were trying to order en français when clearly no one at the store spoke their language. The Cashier thought it was like talking to a bunch of five year olds. She especially hated French Canadians. She hated the haughty sound of their voices; it made her skin crawl. She wanted to punch one of them every time they ordered a croissant or a bagel with their stupid French accents. Uncontrollable rage was also a part of her condition, but a symptom she could more readily control.

One of the Frenchies had asked for a glass of water, and when the Cashier turned her back she made a face. Consequently because she wasn’t paying attention, she stepped on a piece of ice. Ice had always made the floor deathly slippery, and her body suddenly jolted forward. Time seemed to go in slow motion. She felt suspended in one frame thirty per second for a possible eternity. There was a moment of total clarity before her face hit one of the nasty corners on the counter. She could feel the sharp edge puncturing into her skull just above her eye. Water puddled onto the floor and her body splashed into it, thick red blood seeping out of the gouging hole in her head.

She lay dying in a pool of her own blood for what seemed like hours. No one seemed to notice. The Canadians at the counter chattered to each other like French Chipmunks. Out back, the bakers continued to bake. Upstairs the manager was watching the security video, probably laughing. The supervisor stepped over her paralyzed, weakening body.

“Get back to work.”

The Cashier shook her head, finished filling the glass of water, and handed it to the French boy with as much of a fake smile as she could muster with blood waterfalling out of her eye socket.

Throughout the day the Cashier weighed her options. She could quit. She could walk out with as much flair and style as she could muster. She’d throw down her hat and declare her hatred for the Nazi-like regime They mandated! The Supervisor would beg her to stay, they were busy and needed her, and the Cashier would turn up her nose! She wouldn’t put up with their shit anymore!

But that was unlikely. If she quit, she’d have to live with the consequences of not having a job and having to borrow money from her parents. Fourteen year olds could only have certain jobs with certain hours and certain pay, and only if they had special papers and with special permission from the School Board. Almost all of the available jobs were of the same caliber. The Cashier didn’t want another job like that, and she didn’t want to deal with the wrath of her parents for quitting the job she had.

She decided that killing herself was the best option. After all, if the Supervisor wasn’t even paying attention to her wounds, she probably wouldn’t notice if the Cashier was dead. And then she wouldn’t have to deal with the consequences! It was a foolproof plan.

She would do it with the bagel knife. It was sharp enough to cut through skin; the Supervisor had cut off a piece of her thumb once, by accident. She would do it behind the counter, where everyone would be sure to see her and think, what a shame, a life gone to waste. She must have done a lot of suffering. Even the selfish customers would be forced to deal with the reality of the Cashier’s pain and feel sorry for her as she lay dying on the floor. They would cry for her.

Around noon there was a lull. The Supervisor was busy refilling coffee beans and brewing more decaf. The Cashier was supposed to go on her break. She was considering waiting until after her break, but it the most opportune time was right then. For a few moments she stood, contemplating bagels. She chose a plain one to represent everything she hated: her job, the customers, the Supervisor… Them. They would find out about it eventually. Maybe They would have to deal with a lawsuit when her parents found out. They probably wouldn’t continue to suffocate people’s personalities after losing a couple billion dollars on her behalf.

The Cashier carried the bagel over to the sandwich counter. As she cut through it, the knife passed vertically over her wrists, opening her veins like canyons. It was sharper than she could have hoped, and instead of just cutting her skin open, it forced her flesh and some of the muscle to tear away. For a moment the Cashier could only stare at it. Her arms were gaping up at her, not bleeding. It was as if they were in shock.

“Hey you.”

The Cashier turned her head. The Supervisor was nowhere to be found… she must have gone to the bathroom, that bitch.

“Hey, doesn’t anybody work here? I’d like to order sometime today.”

The Cashier glanced down at her arms, which were starting to bleed. She looked back up at the customer, who was tapping his fingers on the counter impatiently. She trudged over to the cash register. The room felt heavy, like it was full of dark water, and she was having a hard time sloshing through it.

“What can I get for you?” She tried to sound pleasant, even though her arms were quickly losing sensation. Strangely, she had felt no pain.

“Triple shot of espresso, make sure you give me a sleeve.”

The Cashier was zombie-like as she moved to the espresso machine. It choked and gargled, needing more beans; no one ever refilled it until it was completely empty. Still in a trance she opened a bag, a few rebellious beans escaping and bouncing across the gray tiles of the floor. She refilled the machine with espresso and the blood that dripped off of her arms. When she pressed the button a second time it finally hissed at her and the hot liquid trickled slowly into the cup.

She nearly forgot the sleeve, and when she remembered she smeared it with crimson, sticky fingerprints.

Bringing the steaming drink back to the man she set it on the counter. He looked annoyed that it had taken so long. Numbly, she punched numbers into the register. “Two thirty-five.” She holds out the drink with a shaky hand. Blood is dripping down her arm and all over the counter. She’ll have to clean it up later.

The Supervisor returns to find the Cashier staring at her arms, and gives her a disapproving look. “What are you looking at?”

The Cashier holds her arms out. She waits. Time passes.

“I don’t see anything.”

There isn’t actually anything to see, and the Cashier hates the Supervisor even more. Despite all of her pent up emotion, the Cashier has never been one to follow through; her vivid imagination is what keeps her from being too bored at work. After toasting her bagel, she finally goes on her break. She takes an extra five minutes out of spite.

The Supervisor was never as fantastical as the Cashier. She kept to herself and followed her orders. She did her job well, and rarely complained. Less than a week later, she shot herself in the head. Her devastated mother found her body later that same day, and tried to put the pieces back together.

When the Cashier found out about this, she was furious. She had never been close to the Supervisor, and now that bitch had gone and stolen her thunder. The Cashier hated being shown up, and darkness was her thing. She quit her job. She wouldn’t hold another for two years.