Hot Sauce and Cigarettes
The Crazy Guy
Europe is an absolute mish-mash of culture and people. Especially the country I was in. The modern is blended with the past, and the people are as colorful as the surrounding scenery. When you ride past the river on your bike (something you hardly see in America) you'll pass houses that survived horrible wars, castles that are long forgotten but still stick out like broken fingers, thickets of trees and fields of cows, small sex toy shops, and right next to that a cute and charming cafe--complete with sunflowers glowing in the window.
And the people? Oh, the people. Where does one start with people.
The people were either ridiculously progressive or stuck in the past. Joseph, for example, sang songs from the eighties in a high-helium voice at random. Sid was so obsessed with The Sex Pistols that he had some kind of strange delusion that caused him to believe he was actually part of that band at one point. There were many accents, blending into the sounds of the store in a twisted orchestra of 'how do you do's' and 'oy, that's a right smart smack on the head for you'. This was an American run store, being on Thompson Air Force Base, but you still had people from many places and walks of life.
It was interesting...
If I could ever get out of that little brainwashing room.
The last part of the training video was a cute little cartoon character, who, for no particular reason, was instructing me what to do if I was ever kidnapped by a terrorist. I've always wondered what the situation would be if altered--like maybe the terrorist wanted to just have a pretty cool person at his party or an elaborate scheme to get you to tell him what you thought of his paintings at home. But I suppose the fellows who made this video didn't get invited to parties or lacked creative friends--because those important instances were never brought to light.
Just as the little animation finished explaining that I should carry a blunt object around to ward off the fiends, the door banged open.
I shot up like a rocket, wiping drool from my mouth.
"More things to sign." Demeter said, slamming a binder down on the table, placing a purple pen sweetly on top--like she was topping a sundae with a cherry, "Hurry up. We're busy out there and we need you on a register."
Signing is never over. After you're officially an adult that's what you do, probably more than sleeping.
It seemed like hours later, and then money was thrust into my hands.
It was the first time I'd been inside the Cash Cage. It was plain, yellow walls, as usual, and ugly faded blue countertops where they kept the sign in/out books, sponges, and papers to sign. A plant was thriving in one corner. The room then split off into the safe, where they kept the money and computers and stood in charge of all the figures. Only Demeter and Reeves could step foot in there. I'd tried on accident, and got yelled at feircely.
Demeter called my 'box' of money a 'till'. I jingled the heavy thing, surprised at how much jargon there was for a simple job. Reeves offered doughnuts, and she told him to shut up. She led me out, and took me to the very first register.
First, you are given a password. You type it into a little touch-screen computer thing and your drawer pops open like magic, in which you put the till. She explained things as we went along--what to do if something doesn't scan, how to process a check, how to call people on the intercom, how to breathe air blah blah bleh. After going through the motions, She commented flatly on how I was pretty fast and not making any mistakes. I didn't know whether to take it as a compliment so I just smiled. She mocked me, smiling brightly back.
Then she proclaimed, "I'm going outside for a smoke break. If you need help, Kim or Tammy are right behind you. ...But don't ask Timothy, he'll talk your ear off."
"Er..."
"Bye."
And I was alone.
Things went pretty well after that. I even got to lean in the little space for a few. Until:
"Boo."
I turned, gasping. Laughing.
"Rose."
Rose was my best friend and roommate. We looked like sisters, but could be enemies in another universe--our personalities conflicted so much. But those kind of contrasts form the best attachments in this life. Also, being friends keeps things less bloody. She was elegant, I, fumbling. She wore heels, I kicked it in chucks. She was an outspoken rock, and I had not learned that art. Yet.
I rung up her items, frustrated when the yogurt accompanying her sandwich didn't like me and stubbornly claimed on my screen that it didn't have a price.
"The service industry isn't easy." Rose smiled. She knew. She'd been working at the cafe mentioned earlier for awhile now. I grinned.
"Well at least you're patient." I turned to an old device with wood paneling surrounding ivory colored buttons. Something the 1970s would've called a phone. Again, a great example of how Europe manages to blend the past with the present. I called for a price check nervously, disgusted by the sound of my voice on speakers above me. Riley was around the corner in seconds.
"What's up?"
God, his accent confused me.
"You know the price of this yogurt?"
"Sure, I'll check." He plucked it from my hands, waving charmingly at the other cashiers behind me.
He came back quickly, and the deal was sealed.
Rose waved to me, wishing me luck as she jingled her change in her pocket. She reminded me of something that I forgot as soon as the automatic doors of the store shut. Whatever.
Riley was still standing behind me,
"So. Did he get here yet?"
"Did who now."
"The Crazy Guy." I turned to see Kim twitch slightly, ruffling her bright blonde hair and rubbing her highly made-up eyes.
"Worst costumer you'll ever have. Tch." Tammy raised her eyebrows. I think Timothy was rocking back and forth over on register four. I think he would've started sucking his thumb if he knew he were alone.
Sid spoke up from his lazy position on the Bagger's Bench,
"Nah. But I hope he does cause I'm fuckin bored. The lunch rush needs to hurry up and get here..."
"No cussing." Joseph snapped from beside him, "Or I'll tell them your real name."
Sid shut his yap. Riley smirked, his mustache crooked on his face. He then looked at me, and I think he was about to say some words of encouragement, but it was replaced by a squeaking noise--like the stereotypical nails on the chalkboard scream. Only it was the screech of a bad wheel on a grocery cart, speeding fast in my direction.
Riley cringed.
I impulsively brought my hands to my ears. Kim looked like she was ducking and Tammy just huffed,
"First thing he does: is go through every single freaking grocery cart to find the loudest one..."
"So we can tell he's coming." Sid laughed, perking up on the bench.
I groaned, pressing on my ears harder as the sound of the dying cart grew closer. I wanted to grind my teeth and feared my eardrums would burst. The muffling my hands did seemed to drive the noise deeper through the skin and bone.
Then, it stopped.
"Oh, thank you. I thought it wasn't going to end..." I opened my eyes, still facing my new friends.
Kim cringed. Tim coughed awkwardly. Tammy pursed her lips. Riley pointed.
"Uh. George."
"Whut."
"Look alive."
And I turned around, jolted by a figure standing like a statue, smiling oddly.
When you think crazy old bum at the grocery store, you think an old creepy guy with a beard and a crooked nose and shifting dark eyes and a low voice saying suggestive things to passerby. A rippled face with acne scars and stink fumes coming from his jacket.
But this guy ...was a bit unexpected, you could say.
This guy was young, although I could tell he was much older than me. His clothes were a mismatching array of black and color, strips and dots. He clutched a music player like it was super-glued to his shaking hand. His hair was a mess. His smile was really lovely, I'd give him that. If his brown eyes hadn't looked so oddly vacant.
The wide smile never left as we stared at each other.
"Hi." He said quickly. The voice was unique, the kind you knew could switch pitches and personas on a whim. While I decided on whether or not I should attempt to say something back, he slouched over his buggy and began to throw various items on my moving belt. I scratched my head then, noticing he was carrying a purse.
Yes. A purse. It was the messenger bag type, but it was bright purple and the style was... feminime, to say the least. The zipper was complete with a flower keychain.
He was humming strangely as I rang up up his things. One potato. A lunchables. Cheese. Grape Jelly. Fun Dip. ...Hot Sauce. Too much Hot Sauce. Wait, wait, wait. Maxi-Pads?
I didn't see a ring on his finger, and was geniunely afraid.
His eyes were everywhere, even though he wasn't really looking at anything. He scratched his wide nose and suddenly held up a magazine off the rack next to me, pointing a finger at a celebrity, yelling loudly. Most likely because the volume coming from his headphones were enough to damage my ears... or maybe to grab attention, I still haven't figured out which.
"Look at that! She's pregnant again! Whoo-ee, if--"
He suddenly stopped and leaned, causing me to stumble back. I had a very large personal bubble, and he'd just popped it.
"You have freckles. Freckles means you're very wise."
...
"Do you want to buy the magazine, or not?"
He slumped, "Uhhhhhhhhhhhh...."
He held on to the uh for about ten minutes.
I tapped my leg.
He put the magazine back, upside down. His hands hovered around it like he was a director searching for a good shot.
I shook my head in disbelief, quietly telling him how much money he owed.
"WHAT." He suddenly yelled and I stepped back again. But he didn't seem to know he'd said it aloud, for he proceeded to reach into his little purse thingy and throw pennies at me.
Pennies. If there's one thing a cashier hates more than anything in the world, it's Mr. Lincoln's side profile glinting from underneath your couches.
He owed me thirteen dollars and forty-seven cents.
(please please don't tell me he only has pennies !!)
My nose twitched and my leg tapped faster, like half my body wanted to run off to a marathon.
Sid was finding it very difficult to hold in laughter. He was choking on his own inner chuckles. I hoped he really did choke, in that moment.
Crazy Guy began counting how many he had so far, hair twitching in his face as he chanted:
"3. 4. 26. 20. 20. Blue. Forty-twooooo..."
Riley had long since left to go help someone. The people behind me were busy talking to happy, normal people. People who weren't mumbling nonsense and listening to loud music as they lost count multiple times. I stared bleakly at glittering copper, dirty with fingerprints and age. The constant beeps and low conversations grew in volume. I was going mad.
I reached for the phone, planning on calling for Mr. Reeves. I didn't feel like arguing or questioning logic and reason with this man. Not for a second. I was shy in that moment, but certainly not stupid.
I put it back on its vintage cradle when I heard Demeter shout,
"YOU!"
Before then I never thought I'd say this, but,
Thank God for unforgiving women in heels.
And the people? Oh, the people. Where does one start with people.
The people were either ridiculously progressive or stuck in the past. Joseph, for example, sang songs from the eighties in a high-helium voice at random. Sid was so obsessed with The Sex Pistols that he had some kind of strange delusion that caused him to believe he was actually part of that band at one point. There were many accents, blending into the sounds of the store in a twisted orchestra of 'how do you do's' and 'oy, that's a right smart smack on the head for you'. This was an American run store, being on Thompson Air Force Base, but you still had people from many places and walks of life.
It was interesting...
If I could ever get out of that little brainwashing room.
The last part of the training video was a cute little cartoon character, who, for no particular reason, was instructing me what to do if I was ever kidnapped by a terrorist. I've always wondered what the situation would be if altered--like maybe the terrorist wanted to just have a pretty cool person at his party or an elaborate scheme to get you to tell him what you thought of his paintings at home. But I suppose the fellows who made this video didn't get invited to parties or lacked creative friends--because those important instances were never brought to light.
Just as the little animation finished explaining that I should carry a blunt object around to ward off the fiends, the door banged open.
I shot up like a rocket, wiping drool from my mouth.
"More things to sign." Demeter said, slamming a binder down on the table, placing a purple pen sweetly on top--like she was topping a sundae with a cherry, "Hurry up. We're busy out there and we need you on a register."
Signing is never over. After you're officially an adult that's what you do, probably more than sleeping.
It seemed like hours later, and then money was thrust into my hands.
It was the first time I'd been inside the Cash Cage. It was plain, yellow walls, as usual, and ugly faded blue countertops where they kept the sign in/out books, sponges, and papers to sign. A plant was thriving in one corner. The room then split off into the safe, where they kept the money and computers and stood in charge of all the figures. Only Demeter and Reeves could step foot in there. I'd tried on accident, and got yelled at feircely.
Demeter called my 'box' of money a 'till'. I jingled the heavy thing, surprised at how much jargon there was for a simple job. Reeves offered doughnuts, and she told him to shut up. She led me out, and took me to the very first register.
First, you are given a password. You type it into a little touch-screen computer thing and your drawer pops open like magic, in which you put the till. She explained things as we went along--what to do if something doesn't scan, how to process a check, how to call people on the intercom, how to breathe air blah blah bleh. After going through the motions, She commented flatly on how I was pretty fast and not making any mistakes. I didn't know whether to take it as a compliment so I just smiled. She mocked me, smiling brightly back.
Then she proclaimed, "I'm going outside for a smoke break. If you need help, Kim or Tammy are right behind you. ...But don't ask Timothy, he'll talk your ear off."
"Er..."
"Bye."
And I was alone.
Things went pretty well after that. I even got to lean in the little space for a few. Until:
"Boo."
I turned, gasping. Laughing.
"Rose."
Rose was my best friend and roommate. We looked like sisters, but could be enemies in another universe--our personalities conflicted so much. But those kind of contrasts form the best attachments in this life. Also, being friends keeps things less bloody. She was elegant, I, fumbling. She wore heels, I kicked it in chucks. She was an outspoken rock, and I had not learned that art. Yet.
I rung up her items, frustrated when the yogurt accompanying her sandwich didn't like me and stubbornly claimed on my screen that it didn't have a price.
"The service industry isn't easy." Rose smiled. She knew. She'd been working at the cafe mentioned earlier for awhile now. I grinned.
"Well at least you're patient." I turned to an old device with wood paneling surrounding ivory colored buttons. Something the 1970s would've called a phone. Again, a great example of how Europe manages to blend the past with the present. I called for a price check nervously, disgusted by the sound of my voice on speakers above me. Riley was around the corner in seconds.
"What's up?"
God, his accent confused me.
"You know the price of this yogurt?"
"Sure, I'll check." He plucked it from my hands, waving charmingly at the other cashiers behind me.
He came back quickly, and the deal was sealed.
Rose waved to me, wishing me luck as she jingled her change in her pocket. She reminded me of something that I forgot as soon as the automatic doors of the store shut. Whatever.
Riley was still standing behind me,
"So. Did he get here yet?"
"Did who now."
"The Crazy Guy." I turned to see Kim twitch slightly, ruffling her bright blonde hair and rubbing her highly made-up eyes.
"Worst costumer you'll ever have. Tch." Tammy raised her eyebrows. I think Timothy was rocking back and forth over on register four. I think he would've started sucking his thumb if he knew he were alone.
Sid spoke up from his lazy position on the Bagger's Bench,
"Nah. But I hope he does cause I'm fuckin bored. The lunch rush needs to hurry up and get here..."
"No cussing." Joseph snapped from beside him, "Or I'll tell them your real name."
Sid shut his yap. Riley smirked, his mustache crooked on his face. He then looked at me, and I think he was about to say some words of encouragement, but it was replaced by a squeaking noise--like the stereotypical nails on the chalkboard scream. Only it was the screech of a bad wheel on a grocery cart, speeding fast in my direction.
Riley cringed.
I impulsively brought my hands to my ears. Kim looked like she was ducking and Tammy just huffed,
"First thing he does: is go through every single freaking grocery cart to find the loudest one..."
"So we can tell he's coming." Sid laughed, perking up on the bench.
I groaned, pressing on my ears harder as the sound of the dying cart grew closer. I wanted to grind my teeth and feared my eardrums would burst. The muffling my hands did seemed to drive the noise deeper through the skin and bone.
Then, it stopped.
"Oh, thank you. I thought it wasn't going to end..." I opened my eyes, still facing my new friends.
Kim cringed. Tim coughed awkwardly. Tammy pursed her lips. Riley pointed.
"Uh. George."
"Whut."
"Look alive."
And I turned around, jolted by a figure standing like a statue, smiling oddly.
When you think crazy old bum at the grocery store, you think an old creepy guy with a beard and a crooked nose and shifting dark eyes and a low voice saying suggestive things to passerby. A rippled face with acne scars and stink fumes coming from his jacket.
But this guy ...was a bit unexpected, you could say.
This guy was young, although I could tell he was much older than me. His clothes were a mismatching array of black and color, strips and dots. He clutched a music player like it was super-glued to his shaking hand. His hair was a mess. His smile was really lovely, I'd give him that. If his brown eyes hadn't looked so oddly vacant.
The wide smile never left as we stared at each other.
"Hi." He said quickly. The voice was unique, the kind you knew could switch pitches and personas on a whim. While I decided on whether or not I should attempt to say something back, he slouched over his buggy and began to throw various items on my moving belt. I scratched my head then, noticing he was carrying a purse.
Yes. A purse. It was the messenger bag type, but it was bright purple and the style was... feminime, to say the least. The zipper was complete with a flower keychain.
He was humming strangely as I rang up up his things. One potato. A lunchables. Cheese. Grape Jelly. Fun Dip. ...Hot Sauce. Too much Hot Sauce. Wait, wait, wait. Maxi-Pads?
I didn't see a ring on his finger, and was geniunely afraid.
His eyes were everywhere, even though he wasn't really looking at anything. He scratched his wide nose and suddenly held up a magazine off the rack next to me, pointing a finger at a celebrity, yelling loudly. Most likely because the volume coming from his headphones were enough to damage my ears... or maybe to grab attention, I still haven't figured out which.
"Look at that! She's pregnant again! Whoo-ee, if--"
He suddenly stopped and leaned, causing me to stumble back. I had a very large personal bubble, and he'd just popped it.
"You have freckles. Freckles means you're very wise."
...
"Do you want to buy the magazine, or not?"
He slumped, "Uhhhhhhhhhhhh...."
He held on to the uh for about ten minutes.
I tapped my leg.
He put the magazine back, upside down. His hands hovered around it like he was a director searching for a good shot.
I shook my head in disbelief, quietly telling him how much money he owed.
"WHAT." He suddenly yelled and I stepped back again. But he didn't seem to know he'd said it aloud, for he proceeded to reach into his little purse thingy and throw pennies at me.
Pennies. If there's one thing a cashier hates more than anything in the world, it's Mr. Lincoln's side profile glinting from underneath your couches.
He owed me thirteen dollars and forty-seven cents.
(please please don't tell me he only has pennies !!)
My nose twitched and my leg tapped faster, like half my body wanted to run off to a marathon.
Sid was finding it very difficult to hold in laughter. He was choking on his own inner chuckles. I hoped he really did choke, in that moment.
Crazy Guy began counting how many he had so far, hair twitching in his face as he chanted:
"3. 4. 26. 20. 20. Blue. Forty-twooooo..."
Riley had long since left to go help someone. The people behind me were busy talking to happy, normal people. People who weren't mumbling nonsense and listening to loud music as they lost count multiple times. I stared bleakly at glittering copper, dirty with fingerprints and age. The constant beeps and low conversations grew in volume. I was going mad.
I reached for the phone, planning on calling for Mr. Reeves. I didn't feel like arguing or questioning logic and reason with this man. Not for a second. I was shy in that moment, but certainly not stupid.
I put it back on its vintage cradle when I heard Demeter shout,
"YOU!"
Before then I never thought I'd say this, but,
Thank God for unforgiving women in heels.