I’m Not Sorry I Said It

Standing within the rocking hell of a fluorescently-lit pseudo-happy-pirate-ship-type-thing (yes, I work at *that* grocery store, where we get to wear the ohsoverycool Hawaiin t-shirts, and the bells, don’t forget the fucking bells), I’m grateful to be on cleaning for the hour before lunch.  I welcome any task that allows me to keep to myself, especially on the heels of register time, but my much-needed chance at some introversion is sullied by the presence of a certain manager whose IQ is inversely proportional to his need to show everyone just how much big! mighty! power! he possesses.  Said manager looks like a giraffe–long neck, no shoulders, and no chin, though he tries to hide that with an ill-kept goatee.  He combs the front of his hair into somewhat of a tidal wave, as though he’s channeling David Silver.  The giraffe walks like a jellyfish, slinking creepily and quietly around corners, trying to catch as many employee mistakes as he can.  His laugh is consistently robotic–one note, two beats, that’s it.  Loud.  Huh Huh.  Big voice for the jelly-raffe.  First on my cleaning list is the emptying of the trash cans at each register.  We’re out of trash bags in the “pit” (get it?  It’s a ship metaphor!) so I go to the back room to look for more.  He’s standing back there, writing his order and he looks at me not suspiciously but accusatorily.  I must be up to no good.  I round a corner and am out of his view for about thirty seconds, during which I begin to climb on the shelves and move around boxes.  I like to arbitrarily move around boxes.  He rounds the corner and, without relinquishing his accusatory tone, asks, “what are you doing?”  I answer, “looking for  trash bags.”  His mind-melding powers piercing my brain, he continues, “really?”  Shit!  I forgot about the mind-meld.    He’s caught me.  I take a deep breath.  “Oh Mighty Shoulderless One, I’m sorry.  You know I’m not really looking for trash bags.  I’m trying to find a portal to Pluto.  I think the key lies within the mop-heads.”  But it’s not a reasonable excuse–the employee handbook clearly states that looking for portals is grounds for an automatic write-up.  He’s probably already completed and submitted the paper work for my reprimand–after all, he’s pyschic too.  He knows everything about all of us.  Except for one thing–one very, important thing.  He knows nothing of my power to instantaneously conjure Richard Simmons.  He is no match for the Richard Simmons. 

To be continued…

EDIT: Never try to write something humorous about a hated job, at least not a job in which you’re still currently stuck.  Gah!  If you really want to feel better, just get back at your boss by later taking a nap in the stockroom when he isn’t looking.  Hey, you’re tired.