Hot Sauce and Cigarettes

The supposed boss of all cashiers, the head honcho, the man on top, was a funny looking fellow. He reminded me of a ferret. His voice, that of a nervous rat. But he seemed kind despite his gangily frame and gaunt face, so when he smiled warmly from the inside of what they called, "The Cash Cage"--where all the store's money and little money-holders were safely nestled, I smiled back.

"George, is it?" He spoke into a speaker centered in a glass window.

"Georgie. Georgie Jones." I insisted. He ignored me.

"That's a nice name. I wish I had a nice name."

"Why's that?"

"Oh, I don't know. Peter Reeves is kind of a boring name."

It was, but I dare not say that to a boss. The man from behind the window suddenly grinned:

"Would you like a doughnut?"

"Um. No, I had breakfast already..."

A disappointed sigh and he turned, his striped dorky shirt even more unflattering in the glow of flourescent lights.

"Ah, Demeter, there you are."

She glanced lazily at her deep ruby nails as her bored eyes finished connecting with mine. There was something like a smile on her face, though you'd have to use ultra-slow motion photography to get even a blurred glimpse of it.

"Georgie," Reeves cleared his throat, "This is Sara Demeter. I think you guys know each other...?"

I rubbed a bit of a headache I had away, remembering the day before:

"Sure."

"Alrighty then! She's one of the main supervisors around here,

(oh well that's grand like biscuits)

so she'll show you around and let you meet some people, and then we'll have you watch the required training videos."

..Required training videos. Sounded fair enough.

"Okay then."

"...You sure you wouldn't like a doughnut?"

"She does not want a doughnut. Jesus." Demeter scoffed, leaving the small view of the smudged window, flicking his head with a nail as she stalked away. I was surprised he didn't even flinch about it, but shrugged the moment off. In this place, I soon found that was the best strategy unless you wanted to turn bonkers.

She appeared around the corner of the Cash Cage, silently gesturing with a slim finger that I follow her. I traced her steps awkwardly down to the line of registers.

The first day of anything is always a bit rough, you feel something like a puppy who just got dumped off the highway bridge and dumped into a cold lake, sinking to the bottom with a bag full of rocks.

Too gruesome? Sorry.

Dead quiet, the few cashiers there at the line of registers, all identical, looked like they were snoozing.

"Ahem." She said.

They jumped like tiny soldiers at attention.

"Hey Ms. Demi." A short girl with pixie-styled blonde hair and a sneering lip.

"How was your weekend, Dee?" A middle-aged woman of dark skintone, with glasses and a bit of an attitude.

"Nice dress, Miss Demeter." A young man called with strawberry blonde hair... who was wearing a suit? What kind of college kid wears a suit to his mediocre job?

"G'Morning, Kim. It was shitty, Tammy. Thank you, Timothy." Demeter snapped her fingers, something I would learn was a nervous tick of hers.

"Heeeeellloooo madam, how are you?"

I turned and laughed quietly at an older man with a kind face and a funny voice. He wore some silly looking glasses and an obnoxiously patterned shirt. When Demeter responded with another smart ass remark he laughed, and it was the laugh of a generic and evil mad scientist. The soles of his shoes were worn by many years, and he wore some tacky jewelry, along with his 80s swatch on a hairy wrist.

And if you think he's bad, just wait until we get to the...

Well, I'll get to that soon enough.

The older man now in front of me, who was rather short, held out a hand, which I shook, surprised by his enthusiasm as my entire body rattled up and down like that shaker thing people use to make margaritas or whatever people drink at parties.

Demeter spoke: "This is Georgie. Georgie, this Joseph. Joseph, Georgie. He's been head bagger here for a very long time."

"Nice to meet you George. Good grip you got there. Say, that's a boy's name. George. Isn't that right, Sid, my old pal?"

I cringed, tired of this new nickname. I giggled inwardly then at a lump sitting on one of the benches against the windowed wall, facing stiff and steel/plastic of the registers. He was dressed in clothes harking back to the early punk era, and his hair was spiked up ridiculously.

"We have no regulations on bagger dress code." Demeter tsked and shook her head, "Such a shame."

"Oi, you can be quiet lady. I'm trying to take a nap." The lump drooled lazily. He sounded hung over or high or both.

"Well anyway, that's Su---"

The figure on the bench jumped, patting my back with an aggression that made me cough as he snarled through his teeth, "SID! SIIIIID is my name. Got it?"

I stared confusedly over at Demeter, who wasn't looking at me, just staring out the windows distantly.

"Alright. Nice to meet you... Sid."

"Right. We're going to get along then." Sid smiled, turning casually back to the row of benches against the ugly yellow wall.

I jumped at a tap on my shoulder, turning to face the strange boy in the suit.

He seemed like one of those kids on a 1950s short public service announcement for hygiene or appreciating elder folks. What he did next made him seem like something more of a robot with a generic name like 'Junior'.

"Greetings. I am Timothy. I don't believe we've formally met?"

Bee bop boo beep. Blippidy dippidy flippin doo dah. Where was the off switch?

He grasped my hand and shook gently. Well, at least he didn't dislocate my shoulder. But his hands were clammy. I wiped them subtly on the sides of my purple circus tent.

I smiled a small smile, something I did to signal that I did not want to be talking to this particular strange person, "Nice to meet you, Timothy."

I think a circut of his blew, because then he babbled quickly:

"Where are you from? What's your favorite color? Do you like music?"

"Oh, Tim, I don't have time for you to analyze her. I've got to get her watching the training vids." Demeter pulled me along by the collar of my purple robe-thing (at that point I had no idea it was referred to as a smock) as the three cashiers called and waved goodbye. The yellow walls spun as Demeter pushed her way into a door over by Admin marked, "Conference Room".

If I'd had a sharpie then, I would've changed the name to BRAINWASH CELL.

I felt like I was Alex in the last scenes of A Clockwork Orange, being sat into a little chair in the center of the empty space. It would make sense. After all, Thompson Grocery was in fact on a military base and I was now considered a civilian employee. The room was about as big as my closet back at the tiny apartment. I took a moment to question myself on the meaning of the random planks of wood with nails stuck in them against the wall, along with cardboard signs advertising certain brands or sales.

coffins seems likely enough...

I turned my attention to Demeter, who now wheeled a TV in front of me and popped in a tape that looked like it was crafted by The Flintstones. She had some trouble, and blew into the thing like it was a nintendo game, banging on the squealing VCR with a pale fist and shaking the TV violently, grumbling her complaints and cussing.

I hoped this woman wasn't planning on having children. Like ever.

A final thwack on the poor squealing pig of a VCR, and a blue screen popped up on the prehistoric TV, complete with lines of static that would make abstract artists squeal with delight.

"Enjoy." Demeter smiled her stone cold grin again, patting my head gently as she left the room. I heard her whisper about needing a good smoke as her heels clacked in the hall, echoing away as the film started.

I think I went to hell and back.

It was two hours of a woman dressed in a blue dress complete with shoulder pads. Red lipstick irking me because you could see the color smeared on her yellow teeth. The hair on her head was surely a wig. One of her black eyes was lazy, and I kept thinking someone was behind me because it would stare off to the side so much. Her speaking level was that of a fourteen year old, her tone too soft to be heard and too slow to be interesting.

But perhaps, what's worse, was the subject: sexual harrassment. I can't quote word for word what the woman was reading off a teleprompter (I could tell by the one live eye moving left and right into the camera) but I do remember this:

"Sexual Harrassment, as outlined in the DECA code of 1234 21 jump street P Sherman 42 Wallaby Way states: Sexual Harrassment is bad. Don't do it. Please. No bad touching. Okay."

Then the woman went on to explain the meaning of 'bad touching', like she was elaborating to the future workforce made up of six year olds. Really, it was too awkward for me to express in words. She even detailed what to do if you found a naughty magazine in your boss's desk drawer.

I suddenly thought of some scenario with Mr. Reeves, finding pictures of "DOUGHNUTS MONTLY: GIRLS ON ICING." And couldn't help but laugh loudly to myself.

I jumped when I heard a laugh behind me, joining me in its enthusiasm.

"You get to the terrorist part yet?"

I stared at the guy, hardly paying attention to his outlandish, grunge-y clothes or really blue eyes or messy short hair. Not even the fact that he had a funny accent caught my attention just then. (It wasn't unusual, living in Europe) All I really could stare blankly at was the fact that this guy had a handlebar mustache, the kind that you actually had to maintain and comb and wax into little curly bits at the ends every morning.

Entranced by the lameness of this boy, who looked just shy of a few years older than I, I dropped the next word sneering dumbly in my brain and out of my mouth:

"Whut."

He laughed again, leaning against the doorway, "Tearr-oar-ist. Y'know, they tell you what to do if you're kidnapped by some infidel and they try getting information about the store or military base?"

"No." I said finally.

"Well it's great, keep watching. I'm Riley by the way, been a store worker for way too long. You starting cashier?"

I nodded.

He gave a short wave, "Alright. Well, keep awake and look alive. Words to live by."

I just stared at his mustache, twitching, wanting to rip it off. When he popped back into the doorway a second later I hurtled out of my sick little thoughts of ways to get the horrid thing off his face.

"Oh. Have you met the Crazy Guy yet?"

"The what? Oh wait. You mean Joseph?"

"Joseph? Oh! No, no. Nevermind. I shouldn't have said anything. We're not supposed to talk about ...him... to new people."

He began to leave, shuffling his feet.

"Wait!"

A pause.

"Why not?"

"He's made a lot of people quit." Riley smiled mischievously, and I noticed, for the first time, he had a gold tooth. Ew. I was repulsed, shaking my head as he walked out of the tiny excuse of a room fully, whistling a song in the air.

"What does he look like?" I called from within my temporary prison finally, curious.

"Oh don't worry." The voice rang down the dim and hollow hall, "You'll meet him. He always knows when the new people arrive. Always."