It's past two in the afternoon, and I have to be at work in eight hours. I should be getting some sleep, but my head is pounding, not to mention the bright ass sun is shining all its glory onto my face. And it's hot as hell, too. Who can sleep in the heat, except lizards and scorpions? Mammals are not meant for this kind of thermal abuse. Shit! I have to go to sleep. My stomach hurts, the air is too dry, my skin itches, and there's too much noise going on outside. Why did I ever agree to do the graveyard shift? It sucks. Sure, I don't have to bother with all the annoying Daywalkers. Customer service just isn't my thing, and I can't bring myself to pretend to care about their stupid lives, as is guaranteed by my company's television commercials.
Isn't that how a store gets you to come in and buy their junk? By somehow getting you to feel as if you matter, that you are the center of the universe, and that all your little aches and pains and ouchies are major crises that we have sworn obligation to resolve? Puh-leeze. Go jump off a cliff. A couple of nights ago this dimwit comes rushing into the store, cradling her hand with the other, her index finger pointing up as if it were radioactive. She comes over to my counter all panicky demanding to know where the Neosporin was located. I tell it's downstairs and in what aisle to find it. Of course the idiot doesn't find it and I have to go escort her personally to the first aid aisle.
"What happened to your finger?" I asked, becasue from what I can tell, it looked perfectly fine.
The lady whimpers, "I burned it on a curling iron." She showed it to me, as if expecting me to kiss her boo-boo. I looked it over and immediately judged that 'burned' was a bit over the top. The tip of the finger was slightly red, nothing a steady stream of tepid water and a little patience couldn't cure, but it was far from bubbling and blistering like a couple of doozies I had experiened in my childhood. My mother didn't make a big deal of that, so I guess I picked up a tendency not to get overexcited about minor injories. Crybaby kept going on about it as if the damn thing had been cut off.
I pointed out the Neosporin to her without commenting on her finger. Crybaby looks at me and asks, I shit you not, "Will it take the 'ouchies' away?"
I was amazed. 'Ouchies?' Are you fucking kidding me?
"What are you? Five?"
She looked a little embarrassed after that, silently grabbed the Neosporin, and followed me back to the cash register. After the transaction, we exchanged goodbyes. Crybaby didn't look up once the whole time after that, bringing her head up again only when she was out the door. An obvious Daywalker. She had come rushing to the pharmacy in the middle of the night in her pajamas and fuzzy slippers for a slightly red fingertip. God. Grow a pair, you dingbat.
I hate Daywalkers.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment