Warning: Please Remove Your Heart from Your Sleeve
October 12th
Since the freshers moved into Spring 6, there’s been an influx of badly-printed CVs flooding the admin office at Grahams. Grahams is the hardware store I work at. It occupies a corner plot on the high street, meaning it’s possibly one of the largest stores there. It has two floors, the first floor selling fancy bathroom and kitchen suites you can walk around; bedrooms with cluttered beside tables and crisp white linen, the sort we have to shoo sexually active kids off when they think they’re trying to be funny.
My manager ended up taking on only one student. Her name was Tiffany.
“I just don’t want shit loads of kids,” he told me. “Because they’re only gonna fuck off home for Christmas or quit for the summer and well, I’m sick of rifling through all this crap.” He picked up the wad of job applications and threw them back onto the desk. My manager is divorced and losing his hair. He has three tattoos on his forearm, all of which have faded to a sickly green colour. He’s not much of a people person.
“So who’s the one we’ve hired?” I say “we” instead of “you” as it makes me feel more important. I’ve been in Grahams for three years. I’m trying to manipulate my use of language in order to subconsciously convince my manager I’m due for a promotion because of my active enthusiasm towards making decisions.
“Some girl. Blonde. Studies fuck knows what, drama or something. Seemed pretty with-it in her interview though, she used to work in a newsagents or something. I’ve got her doing mostly evenings, she starts on Wednesday.”
*
On her first day, Tiffany tied her blonde hair up into a messy bun. It sort of said, “Hey, I’m pretty but I don’t mind getting my hands dirty. Here, would you like me to recommend you some nail glue or drill bits?” After all, she was a theatre student so I guess she was used to acting up. She kept all of the buttons on her polo shirt undone and her pointy nails were painted pale pink.
Steve sat her at a till almost instantly and told her to give his pager a buzz if she had any problems. She perched on the stool awkwardly, trying to work out how best to cross her legs. She was wearing a pair of black ballet pumps, which was hardly safety-conscious of her. I made it my moral obligation from then on to do all the heavy lifting she may encounter. After two hours of absent-mindedly scanning paintbrushes and boxes of screws, Tiffany began sighing. She caught my attention by drumming her fingernails on the cash register.
“Steve’s tour was at a pretty breakneck speed,” she said to me. I looked up from straightening the emulsions. “Is it okay if I have a wander around?”
I offered to show her around myself. I was attempting to exert my power as a nearly-manager, but she didn’t buy it. She looked at me up and down and asked, as though her blue eyes had bored into my very soul: “Are you a manager or supervisor or something?”
“No, I’m not,” I began. I wanted to explain how I’d been here for three years, but my ambitions truly lied within helping the public for the greater good, volunteering in orphanages, taking in strays from the side of the road, feeding the homeless and walking elderly people across the street, but I didn’t think she’d buy that either.
“I didn’t think so. No offense, but you look a bit scruffy to be a manager.”
Granted, my shirt was untucked and I hadn’t shaved in five days, purely because having no facial hair reduces my apparent age to around twelve or fourteen and I was sick of bouncers scrutinising my ID as though I’d bought it off the Internet that same day.
“Steve doesn’t really care.”
“He should.”
“Why, do you think you could be a better manager?”
“Maybe,” she said, although her eyes seemed to sparkle a little bit. I could feel the sexual tension pressing down on us like a force-field. This was one of those arguments you’d see in films, when the couple stiffen up and their eyes meet and then before long they’re wrapped in some furious embrace, kissing wildly. No such thing happened at the time, but Tiffany let a small smile creep to the corners of her red lips.
She didn’t ask to leave the till again.
My manager ended up taking on only one student. Her name was Tiffany.
“I just don’t want shit loads of kids,” he told me. “Because they’re only gonna fuck off home for Christmas or quit for the summer and well, I’m sick of rifling through all this crap.” He picked up the wad of job applications and threw them back onto the desk. My manager is divorced and losing his hair. He has three tattoos on his forearm, all of which have faded to a sickly green colour. He’s not much of a people person.
“So who’s the one we’ve hired?” I say “we” instead of “you” as it makes me feel more important. I’ve been in Grahams for three years. I’m trying to manipulate my use of language in order to subconsciously convince my manager I’m due for a promotion because of my active enthusiasm towards making decisions.
“Some girl. Blonde. Studies fuck knows what, drama or something. Seemed pretty with-it in her interview though, she used to work in a newsagents or something. I’ve got her doing mostly evenings, she starts on Wednesday.”
*
On her first day, Tiffany tied her blonde hair up into a messy bun. It sort of said, “Hey, I’m pretty but I don’t mind getting my hands dirty. Here, would you like me to recommend you some nail glue or drill bits?” After all, she was a theatre student so I guess she was used to acting up. She kept all of the buttons on her polo shirt undone and her pointy nails were painted pale pink.
Steve sat her at a till almost instantly and told her to give his pager a buzz if she had any problems. She perched on the stool awkwardly, trying to work out how best to cross her legs. She was wearing a pair of black ballet pumps, which was hardly safety-conscious of her. I made it my moral obligation from then on to do all the heavy lifting she may encounter. After two hours of absent-mindedly scanning paintbrushes and boxes of screws, Tiffany began sighing. She caught my attention by drumming her fingernails on the cash register.
“Steve’s tour was at a pretty breakneck speed,” she said to me. I looked up from straightening the emulsions. “Is it okay if I have a wander around?”
I offered to show her around myself. I was attempting to exert my power as a nearly-manager, but she didn’t buy it. She looked at me up and down and asked, as though her blue eyes had bored into my very soul: “Are you a manager or supervisor or something?”
“No, I’m not,” I began. I wanted to explain how I’d been here for three years, but my ambitions truly lied within helping the public for the greater good, volunteering in orphanages, taking in strays from the side of the road, feeding the homeless and walking elderly people across the street, but I didn’t think she’d buy that either.
“I didn’t think so. No offense, but you look a bit scruffy to be a manager.”
Granted, my shirt was untucked and I hadn’t shaved in five days, purely because having no facial hair reduces my apparent age to around twelve or fourteen and I was sick of bouncers scrutinising my ID as though I’d bought it off the Internet that same day.
“Steve doesn’t really care.”
“He should.”
“Why, do you think you could be a better manager?”
“Maybe,” she said, although her eyes seemed to sparkle a little bit. I could feel the sexual tension pressing down on us like a force-field. This was one of those arguments you’d see in films, when the couple stiffen up and their eyes meet and then before long they’re wrapped in some furious embrace, kissing wildly. No such thing happened at the time, but Tiffany let a small smile creep to the corners of her red lips.
She didn’t ask to leave the till again.