DISCLAMER: There is none. It's your choice to be here whether you're 14 or 94. If you're already here, I can't tell you what to do can I? Just don't break whatever law it is that you're breaking by being here and then blaming it on someone else.
BLEAK FUTURE Part 1
It's ten o'clock. I'm at work. I work at a small video store. I'm standing at the counter staring at the television on top of the pole about ten feet from me. It's a metal pole about three feet thick and reaches to the ceiling. Around it, at the very top, are three television sets that surround it like bees around a honeycomb. I'm watching "The Wedding Singer" for the hundredth time. This has got to be one of the most boring jobs in the world, I think. Mondays are always slow, but this is the slowest it's ever been. I hope for someone interesting to come in. I hope someone picks a fight outside so that I can break it up. I even hope that we get robbed to relieve me of this boredom.
After a few minutes, I hear the door of the manager's office creak. I snap out of my reverie and see my supervisor walking towards me. She's no taller than 5'2" with short brown hair that used to fall to her waist, but she cut it a few months ago to her ears. Her face is small and round, makes her look thirteen years old. She's eighteen. She's petite, I guess. She always jokes that she's an eighteen year old trapped in the body of a thirteen year old.
"Jesus! Are we watching this again? No wonder you're so bored," she says.
"I don't remember complaining," I answer, slouching back on the counter.
"I've been working with you for a year. I think I know when you're bored."
"Good for you," I manage to say.
"Tristan, put something else on," she almost yells. "I'm so sick of Adam Sandler. Or just turn the TV off and put the radio on or something. I don't think Dan's gonna come in at ten just to check if we have the TV on or not." Dan's the owner of the store.
"Fine," I say. It's always better to agree with her. She likes to argue so she can make it go on forever. I never really have the energy or the will to keep up.
So I go around the store and turn off the sets on each pole. There are about ten. Then I stop at the entertainment center at the back wall, turn off the big screen and put in a CD. It's something with heavy guitars, very noisy. I don't wait to get to the counter to begin to dance. Right in the middle of the store, I start to throw my head back and forth, with my fingers on my stomach, imitating the movements of a guitar player. James, my supervisor, decides to join me, and in the middle of the store we dance as if we are at a concert. My hair flows back and forth. I am the lead singer and James is my back up.
For half an hour we dance and jump around the store. By the end of the eighth song, I'm sweaty and full of energy I didn't know existed an hour before. When the ninth song begins, we ready ourselves to begin our crazy dance again, but we hear the faint ding of a bell, signaling that someone's entered the store. Neither of us wanting to stop, we ignore whomever it is who just came in and continue to dance, but when I turn around to face this person, I find myself stopping abruptly. It was exactly what I'd hoped for half an hour ago. It was someone who looked interesting.
"Can I help you find something?" I yell over the loud speakers.
"Uh, yeah. Sorta," he screams. Then he yells something so incoherent that it makes me run to the entertainment center to shut off the CD player. James runs in the other direction, taking the opportunity to turn the big screen back on. Then deciding to stay up, she stands at the front to stare at the kid who just came in. He's a bit taller than I am, but not intimidating. I've seen him in the halls at school more than a few times. His dark red hair reminds me of Gina Davis and Julia Roberts in "Notting Hill". It's thick, but not big. Pretty, but not feminine. He's thin without being lanky. His face, like that of James, reminds of a thirteen year old, but his body is that of a boy in his late teens.
Now out of breath, I run back to where he stands and ask, "So, what'd you say? I didn't hear you cause of the radio."
"I need an application. You guys hiring?"
I know that I should say no, but for some reason the word "yes" clings to the tip of my tongue. So, I answer something close to both. "We're sort of taking applications, so I'll give you one, but I can't guarantee anything."
"That's cool," he says and shrugs.
I walk to the front counter where James is standing, staring at the both of us walking towards her. I can see the smirk on her face even though she tries to hide it.
"James?" he asks, reading her nametag, and then chuckling. "Is that your real name?"
"Not really," she answers, "but if you call me anything else, I'll have to kick your ass." She smiles broadly, proud of her words. She likes to act tough, but we both know that she couldn't throw a punch if her life depended on it.
"I like that. I'm Paul." He smiles too, and for almost a full minute they just stand there, smiling at each other, staring into each other's eyes as if they've reached some sort of understanding, an agreement that doesn't include me. I can only stand rigidly, and try to read their expressions, but I've never been good at that so I hand him the application. "Thanks," he says.
"No problem. Just bring it tomorrow and hand it to the manager."
"Okay. Put in a good word for me," he says, and walks toward the door.
I had no answer to that. No yes, okay, or no. I just stare blankly at his back as if he'd said something in gibberish. Then he turns around, staring at me and not James, but not AT me, more like into me, through me, and he smiles. Not the same understanding smile he'd given James, but a different one. It seems like a smile that suggests something a bit more than friendship, or acquaintance. I couldn't smile back because I had no idea what his expression meant so I just stare at him with a perplexed look as he walks out to his car.
"Wow, he's so hot," James says, not even waiting for him to start his car. She runs both her hands through her hair making it more messy than it was.
"I think I know him from school," I say, still staring at the door where he was standing a few seconds ago. "He's like a junior or senior or something."
"I think I'd know if he was a senior, Tris." James is a senior.
"Maybe you missed just one. Doesn't matter anyway. He won't get hired. Donna doesn't like to interview people."
"Wish I'd taken a picture or something," James whispers to herself.
"You can go rewind the security tape and watch it over and over and over and over..."
"Shut up. Come on, let's start cleaning up. We close in an hour."
It's an hour later and James is locking the doors of the store. Paul's face is entrenched in my memory. His serene smile flashes again and again in my mind. I try to shake it off, but I keep seeing that red hair, that pale white face, and I remember that when he looked at me that last time, when he smiled at me before he left, my heart was racing.
(c) Copyright 2001
Please do not reproduce any part of this without permission from the author, me. Not that you would on purpose or to hurt anyone, it's just that I want to know about it if you're going to use this for any reason. I mean, I did write it, so I own it. At least email me and ask. That's all I ask for. Thanks.
( 7/2/01)