“Hey, are you using this plug?”
“Well, my computer’s plugged into it.”
“Um, yeah, but I want to know if you’re using it.”
“I’m typing on my computer right now. The computer that’s plugged into it.”
“Okay, fine, I’m going to take that as a no.”
“Yes, I’m using it.”
“Okay, fine. Thank you very much, sir.”
(i can hear her hissing inside of her head)
Woman walking around the store with her arm bent and extended, as though she’s continually fending off a beating. She looks at me fearfully.
Man speaking over the announcement system saying that someone lost their little black dog named “Arby” in the bookstore. He’s in the security office. They ask that the owner please come pick him up.
Plug girl’s phone rings. She tells her friend with the fur boots, faux alligator belt, and ultrableach ultraperm that it’s her mother calling. She’s maybe 19 but she thinks she’s 44. She stands up and starts toward the door, answering her phone.
“Hello, Molly. Fine. How’s it going?”
and then, in a voice full of slime and catty estrogen,
“Yes, it has been a little while. How wonderful it is to hear from you.”
She doesn’t have a mother. She’s a bitch and she has a bitch.
Older man with gray hair raising a ruckus about the fact that the bookstore doesn’t carry his favorite magazine. The young girl behind the coffee counter is trying to explain to him that she doesn’t have access to purchasing decisions about magazines in the store. He keeps asking her for her supervisors’ home phone numbers.
He’s trying to be threatening.
I wonder how angry he’s willing to get over some stupid magazine.
Plug girl comes back and stares at me angrily. It makes me want to use the plug longer.
It makes me want to tower over her and tell her that everyone including her knows that mother doesn’t love her and never did, because she’s just not loveable enough to have been worth her mother’s time.
Back to work.