Sunday, October 3, 2010

And now I have to change drugstores

The cashier was in his upper teens, tall, blond, pierced.  Sullen.  The inside of his forearm was tattooed in elaborate newspaper masthead/heavy metal album cover script.  The word “Hate.”  With a flourish.

The line of customers is beneath him, and he makes those ladies work for their discount cosmetics.

Between them and me is a customer I take at first for a child, 9 or 10, but she is also a teen, just small.  16 probably, maybe older.  She holds a can of hairspray and a twenty.  When she gets to the counter, she smiles coyly at the cashier and does a little twist.  “Guess where I got a job…” she sings.  He grunts and scans her hairspray.  “Target,” she says proudly.

He:  You realize people get fired really quick there.
She: Where?
He: At Target.  They let a lot of people go.
She: I’ve been there a couple of weeks.
He: Yeh, they have that 90 day thing….
She:  oh, right…
He: And most people don’t make it that far.
She: Well, they’ve been calling me every day for 2 weeks, I get a lot of hours.
He: And the first time you can’t, they’ll use that as a reason to fire you.  I know like 6 people who have been fired from there.
She: Well I’ll see you later.

Me:  He meant to say good luck.


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