I'm a realist idealist, soon-to-be armed pacifist.
One Line Wednesdays @ Running With Letters
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Monday, August 10, 2009
Day One
The world is a strange place at three AM; the late night crowd has finally crashed, but the early birds aren’t quite awake yet. Which makes for a very empty feeling world, I must say.
It was really more like 2:40 Monday morning that I headed off to work- in my eagerness I’d left the house far too early, probably subconsciously factoring in traffic issues or some such. I counted seven other drivers along the way, including my bleary-eyed father.
I was sort of touched that Dad felt the need to make sure I got to Grocery Store safely on my first day, but my predominant emotion was actually concern- I’d seen the Driver’s Ed videos. Red Cement had been a particularly ominous warning against sleepy driving. In preparation for the five minute drive and subsequent eight hour shift, I had gone to bed around four the previous afternoon. I must have been exhausted because I remained virtually comatose until my just-in-case alarm went off at 1:30 AM.
I showered and donned my uniform. The glorious hat gleamed atop my short haircut, the first time I’d ever felt good in a baseball style cap. The polo I’d refitted that weekend still looked slightly awkward, but it would do. I carefully tucked its considerable excess length into precariously perfect pants I’d just purchased at my favorite store’s new location. “The problem here,” I had told my all but cliché sexually disoriented shopping buddy, “is that while these fit great now, who’s to say what I will look like after a month in the bakery? I’d feel better having a little growing room, but the next size up is just too big.”
“Hmm…” my ex looked me up and down, frowning slightly. “Well it’s really not the end of the world to get another pair of pants. You’ll have a few paychecks behind you by the time it would be an issue anyways.” I scowled at the tactless reminder of my fiscal issues. Also I was none too pleased that he thought I’d end up pudgy, but I couldn’t say I was surprised, he’d always said I had “the spirit of a fat American.”
I tied the black shoes I’d serendipitously found in my closet the week before, stood up, and looked myself over in the full length bathroom mirror. Pretty darn cute, I concluded with a nod. The only thing missing was a nametag, which by all accounts was waiting for me in the back office.
When I arrived at Grocery Store, I sauntered over to Dad’s car as he rolled down the window. I was relieved to see he looked slightly more alert. I bade him farewell and headed to the main doors, crossing my fingers that I they would be unlocked. The automatic doors were not operational yet, but I was able to slide them open. I held my breath as I walked through, half expecting an alarm system to start screaming at me or something. That’s all I needed, a police investigation, charges of breaking and entering on my first day. Fortunately, the whole affair was silent and uneventful.
I walked back to the bakery department, only then realizing how early I was. While I waited for the bakery manager to show up, I thumbed through the cake decorating binder on display. About halfway through the epic picture book, Manager M arrived. Even at this obscene time of day, her gigantic blue eyes still sparkled. I was fairly jealous.
My best friend’s unenthused reaction to the detailed description of my work duties was disappointing. Perhaps the sheer joy of frying and glazing the perfect donut, boxing it up with twelve other mouth-watering beauties, taking it out to the floor and watching a random customer lazily plop it into his shopping cart is just one of those things you have to experience for yourself. The enormity of the Giant Oven, the paradoxical chill down your spine as you fear the door ever closing behind you (I’ve been told this doesn’t happen, but I am still wary), the actual, extreme chill of standing in the walk-in freezer moving 50 pound boxes around, preparing rack upon rack of breads and rolls… maybe these things are simply unexplainable. Or maybe I’m a total n00b (as Brother likes to say).
Round about 8 o’clock a familiar face disappeared into the donut display case. I have a feeling Dad will be “visiting” me at work a lot. Shortly after, I took my 15. That was very boring. I just sat in the break room, wishing I was making fritters instead. It was then it struck me that I had been on my feet for five hours, three more to go, and all I’d eaten was half a turnover. Maybe I don’t have to worry about these pants after all.
When I finally left Grocery Store for the day, I was aching, hungry, very tired, and ready to go home. But also very stoked about doing it all again tomorrow. I drifted off in my thoughts on the drive home, eager to spread the news of my amazing day.
Flashing lights brought my attention back to the road… back to the speedometer actually. I pulled over, panicked, upset. I’d heard tales from my friends about sweet talking your way out of tickets, but all the details seemed to escape me now. I hadn’t listened that close really; I didn’t ever think I’d be in this situation. See, my friends joke on my careful driving on a fairly regular basis. No, I’m not that jerk going fifty on the interstate, but I never go more than five over on surface roads.
Well, rarely.
My beautiful convertible must have given the cop the impression that I am in the habit of speeding- he handled the situation as if I’d been through the whole rigmarole before. He looked disinterested as I looked at him stupidly, teary eyed and sniffling. There was no “do you know how fast you were going ma’am,” no “well this is your first offense so you can go home,” nothing. This was not how it goes down in the movies.
The whole debacle concluded with him barking “you are free to go” in his megaphone for all the world to hear. Passersby looked over, some chuckling, some shaking their heads in disapproval. I was humiliated and shaken.
After thirty seconds of driving two below the speed limit, I was home. Within an hour my family was home, hearing my woeful tale, looking over my crumpled, sloppily scrawled ticket. Mother looked at me with concern, announcing I hadn’t looked quite this sad even during the break-up. Dad shared her confused sentiment. “It’s not like they took your car away,” he remarked.
Which, of course, is true. It would just be nice if I could make it to work and back without losing a week’s pay. Guess I’ll just have to try harder next time.
It was really more like 2:40 Monday morning that I headed off to work- in my eagerness I’d left the house far too early, probably subconsciously factoring in traffic issues or some such. I counted seven other drivers along the way, including my bleary-eyed father.
I was sort of touched that Dad felt the need to make sure I got to Grocery Store safely on my first day, but my predominant emotion was actually concern- I’d seen the Driver’s Ed videos. Red Cement had been a particularly ominous warning against sleepy driving. In preparation for the five minute drive and subsequent eight hour shift, I had gone to bed around four the previous afternoon. I must have been exhausted because I remained virtually comatose until my just-in-case alarm went off at 1:30 AM.
I showered and donned my uniform. The glorious hat gleamed atop my short haircut, the first time I’d ever felt good in a baseball style cap. The polo I’d refitted that weekend still looked slightly awkward, but it would do. I carefully tucked its considerable excess length into precariously perfect pants I’d just purchased at my favorite store’s new location. “The problem here,” I had told my all but cliché sexually disoriented shopping buddy, “is that while these fit great now, who’s to say what I will look like after a month in the bakery? I’d feel better having a little growing room, but the next size up is just too big.”
“Hmm…” my ex looked me up and down, frowning slightly. “Well it’s really not the end of the world to get another pair of pants. You’ll have a few paychecks behind you by the time it would be an issue anyways.” I scowled at the tactless reminder of my fiscal issues. Also I was none too pleased that he thought I’d end up pudgy, but I couldn’t say I was surprised, he’d always said I had “the spirit of a fat American.”
I tied the black shoes I’d serendipitously found in my closet the week before, stood up, and looked myself over in the full length bathroom mirror. Pretty darn cute, I concluded with a nod. The only thing missing was a nametag, which by all accounts was waiting for me in the back office.
When I arrived at Grocery Store, I sauntered over to Dad’s car as he rolled down the window. I was relieved to see he looked slightly more alert. I bade him farewell and headed to the main doors, crossing my fingers that I they would be unlocked. The automatic doors were not operational yet, but I was able to slide them open. I held my breath as I walked through, half expecting an alarm system to start screaming at me or something. That’s all I needed, a police investigation, charges of breaking and entering on my first day. Fortunately, the whole affair was silent and uneventful.
I walked back to the bakery department, only then realizing how early I was. While I waited for the bakery manager to show up, I thumbed through the cake decorating binder on display. About halfway through the epic picture book, Manager M arrived. Even at this obscene time of day, her gigantic blue eyes still sparkled. I was fairly jealous.
My best friend’s unenthused reaction to the detailed description of my work duties was disappointing. Perhaps the sheer joy of frying and glazing the perfect donut, boxing it up with twelve other mouth-watering beauties, taking it out to the floor and watching a random customer lazily plop it into his shopping cart is just one of those things you have to experience for yourself. The enormity of the Giant Oven, the paradoxical chill down your spine as you fear the door ever closing behind you (I’ve been told this doesn’t happen, but I am still wary), the actual, extreme chill of standing in the walk-in freezer moving 50 pound boxes around, preparing rack upon rack of breads and rolls… maybe these things are simply unexplainable. Or maybe I’m a total n00b (as Brother likes to say).
Round about 8 o’clock a familiar face disappeared into the donut display case. I have a feeling Dad will be “visiting” me at work a lot. Shortly after, I took my 15. That was very boring. I just sat in the break room, wishing I was making fritters instead. It was then it struck me that I had been on my feet for five hours, three more to go, and all I’d eaten was half a turnover. Maybe I don’t have to worry about these pants after all.
When I finally left Grocery Store for the day, I was aching, hungry, very tired, and ready to go home. But also very stoked about doing it all again tomorrow. I drifted off in my thoughts on the drive home, eager to spread the news of my amazing day.
Flashing lights brought my attention back to the road… back to the speedometer actually. I pulled over, panicked, upset. I’d heard tales from my friends about sweet talking your way out of tickets, but all the details seemed to escape me now. I hadn’t listened that close really; I didn’t ever think I’d be in this situation. See, my friends joke on my careful driving on a fairly regular basis. No, I’m not that jerk going fifty on the interstate, but I never go more than five over on surface roads.
Well, rarely.
My beautiful convertible must have given the cop the impression that I am in the habit of speeding- he handled the situation as if I’d been through the whole rigmarole before. He looked disinterested as I looked at him stupidly, teary eyed and sniffling. There was no “do you know how fast you were going ma’am,” no “well this is your first offense so you can go home,” nothing. This was not how it goes down in the movies.
The whole debacle concluded with him barking “you are free to go” in his megaphone for all the world to hear. Passersby looked over, some chuckling, some shaking their heads in disapproval. I was humiliated and shaken.
After thirty seconds of driving two below the speed limit, I was home. Within an hour my family was home, hearing my woeful tale, looking over my crumpled, sloppily scrawled ticket. Mother looked at me with concern, announcing I hadn’t looked quite this sad even during the break-up. Dad shared her confused sentiment. “It’s not like they took your car away,” he remarked.
Which, of course, is true. It would just be nice if I could make it to work and back without losing a week’s pay. Guess I’ll just have to try harder next time.
Saturday, August 8, 2009
A Sudden Reappearance With No Explanation Offered or Available
“We really don’t want any purples, blues, pinks, greens…” she laughed at the very thought. “Just keep it natural.”
I could feel my face slowly drooping despite my best efforts to remain stalwart. This was a crushing blow; full focus was required to keep that fact secret. The HR Rep really didn’t need to know that throughout the previous year I had enhanced my ever-shortening hairstyle with highlights of more than just the aforementioned colors.
It was a mere month and a half prior that I had finally given in and settled with a singular, as-normal-as-I could-muster hair color— more for the benefit of my fretting family and boyfriend (at the time) than for the sake of the job hunt. Some nonsense about my hair falling out before I hit thirty.
Brother challenged me to a dye free summer, a 20 oz coke at stake, so I picked up some cinnamon red at the local convenience store as a final hurrah before accepting. The repeatedly bleached sector of my hair remained a much lighter tone than the rest, unfortunate indication that it really was time to give it a rest for a few months at least.
But this! This was too much. I had just been sentenced to social normalcy for my foreseeable future. I felt grimmer by the moment, as Ms. HR went on to outlaw nail polish, visible tattoos, facial piercings, and colored shoelaces. I must have paled upon the realization that my lifelong intentions of sporting a shiny little nose ring had just been significantly delayed, as a fellow Grocery Store trainee cast me a sympathetic glance. The plan had been to spend the first of my hard earned money on said piercing, a celebration of disproving the skeptics and landing the perfect first job.
Granted, I should have gotten a job much earlier than I did. But it was easier to survive off babysitting gigs and two sets of graduation money (a hefty round last year after high school, another smaller yet significant dose after getting my associates in May). I’ve been reportedly looking for work since the summer of ’07— the lengthy search consisted of three bouts of frenzied online application submissions and two visits to a neighborhood coffee shop. I just didn’t feel a sense of urgency— I’m on good terms with the padres so there was no fear of getting kicked out upon adulthood, I had a sweet car with insurance paid until September, I had managed to stretch that graduation money farther than anyone thought possible, and my babysitting clients always seemed to call at just the right times.
A month ago I discovered some news. My favorite store was packing up shop and moving across the street, meaning some major sales. I decided to take stock of my monies before heading over there, and was met with some appalling numbers. The totals were grim. Low-ish double digits grim. That’s when it all hit me. At eighteen years old, I had no money, no work experience, no savings account, no plans beyond a whimsical “someday I’d like to be an anarchist baker.”
I’ve always been full of explanations— I’m focusing on school, you’ll complain that I’m gone too much, the economy sucks and there are no jobs to be had, my boy is rich and he’ll take care of me. But I was out of excuses- I had a degree, there was no way to pretend my parents wouldn’t be overjoyed to have me earning my keep, I was an adult with a whole slew of new job opportunities, and I no longer had a boy.
So I hauled my sorry self out to Grocery Store the next day and wandered back to the bakery department. Mustering all my self confidence, I introduced myself to the bakery manager, filled out an application, and left with instructions to call HR if I didn’t hear anything by Monday. By Tuesday I was in an official interview, answering unnerving questions like “So why are you just now looking for a job?”
Thursday I took a drug test, the next Monday my negative results were rewarded with a promise of being put on next week’s schedule (Monday and Tuesday, 3 – 11 AM) and an official Grocery Store hat and polo. The shirt was unfortunately huge, but the hat… I paraded that sucker around like a gold medal.
Friday was training day. Despite the disappointing discovery that Grocery Store training had nothing to do with learning to make bread, suspicious videos pleading with me to not join a labor union (I never would have thought to, I don’t even know what one is but I’m certainly looking into it now), and the heart-crushing news that I had to look like a normal citizen, I had absolutely no doubts that becoming a part-time baker at Grocery Store will prove to be one of the best decisions I’ve made to date.
I could feel my face slowly drooping despite my best efforts to remain stalwart. This was a crushing blow; full focus was required to keep that fact secret. The HR Rep really didn’t need to know that throughout the previous year I had enhanced my ever-shortening hairstyle with highlights of more than just the aforementioned colors.
It was a mere month and a half prior that I had finally given in and settled with a singular, as-normal-as-I could-muster hair color— more for the benefit of my fretting family and boyfriend (at the time) than for the sake of the job hunt. Some nonsense about my hair falling out before I hit thirty.
Brother challenged me to a dye free summer, a 20 oz coke at stake, so I picked up some cinnamon red at the local convenience store as a final hurrah before accepting. The repeatedly bleached sector of my hair remained a much lighter tone than the rest, unfortunate indication that it really was time to give it a rest for a few months at least.
But this! This was too much. I had just been sentenced to social normalcy for my foreseeable future. I felt grimmer by the moment, as Ms. HR went on to outlaw nail polish, visible tattoos, facial piercings, and colored shoelaces. I must have paled upon the realization that my lifelong intentions of sporting a shiny little nose ring had just been significantly delayed, as a fellow Grocery Store trainee cast me a sympathetic glance. The plan had been to spend the first of my hard earned money on said piercing, a celebration of disproving the skeptics and landing the perfect first job.
Granted, I should have gotten a job much earlier than I did. But it was easier to survive off babysitting gigs and two sets of graduation money (a hefty round last year after high school, another smaller yet significant dose after getting my associates in May). I’ve been reportedly looking for work since the summer of ’07— the lengthy search consisted of three bouts of frenzied online application submissions and two visits to a neighborhood coffee shop. I just didn’t feel a sense of urgency— I’m on good terms with the padres so there was no fear of getting kicked out upon adulthood, I had a sweet car with insurance paid until September, I had managed to stretch that graduation money farther than anyone thought possible, and my babysitting clients always seemed to call at just the right times.
A month ago I discovered some news. My favorite store was packing up shop and moving across the street, meaning some major sales. I decided to take stock of my monies before heading over there, and was met with some appalling numbers. The totals were grim. Low-ish double digits grim. That’s when it all hit me. At eighteen years old, I had no money, no work experience, no savings account, no plans beyond a whimsical “someday I’d like to be an anarchist baker.”
I’ve always been full of explanations— I’m focusing on school, you’ll complain that I’m gone too much, the economy sucks and there are no jobs to be had, my boy is rich and he’ll take care of me. But I was out of excuses- I had a degree, there was no way to pretend my parents wouldn’t be overjoyed to have me earning my keep, I was an adult with a whole slew of new job opportunities, and I no longer had a boy.
So I hauled my sorry self out to Grocery Store the next day and wandered back to the bakery department. Mustering all my self confidence, I introduced myself to the bakery manager, filled out an application, and left with instructions to call HR if I didn’t hear anything by Monday. By Tuesday I was in an official interview, answering unnerving questions like “So why are you just now looking for a job?”
Thursday I took a drug test, the next Monday my negative results were rewarded with a promise of being put on next week’s schedule (Monday and Tuesday, 3 – 11 AM) and an official Grocery Store hat and polo. The shirt was unfortunately huge, but the hat… I paraded that sucker around like a gold medal.
Friday was training day. Despite the disappointing discovery that Grocery Store training had nothing to do with learning to make bread, suspicious videos pleading with me to not join a labor union (I never would have thought to, I don’t even know what one is but I’m certainly looking into it now), and the heart-crushing news that I had to look like a normal citizen, I had absolutely no doubts that becoming a part-time baker at Grocery Store will prove to be one of the best decisions I’ve made to date.
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