Thrifty

1

I've been cashiering at Penny's Thrift store for about two years now. It's not the worst job in the world, but can be a pain in the ass. We are always shorthanded; they expect us to multi-task, and a majority of the customers are ancient old farts that wants better deals than what they are already getting.

Today is one of those days. I'm struggling to cash a long line of people out while others wants to take a look at the jewelry. "Isn't there anybody else that can help us?" one of the regulars asked.

Feeling more irritated by the second, I picked up the phone to dial the intercom number. "Assistance is needed at jewelry please." I tried sounding as polite as possible. No one would come, and no one would still come, so I dialed and spoke again. "Assistance needed up front. Somebody. Anybody." And what felt like an eternity, the store manager is wobbling his way to the front. He's three hundred pounds, and is a bald Latino. I internally cried in relief when he finally arrived.

Sometime later, I am groaning and slumping in the break room during my lunch break. "If this is what limbo is supposed to be when you die, please just send me straight to hell instead." I mumbled to myself and thinking that's a big possibility given how I've already murdered people.

After a long day at work, the store finally closes at five. I would've rushed out the store along with the final customers if I didn't have to count money for an extra half hour. My mind is thinking of where I am going to go, and how I'm going to kill my next target. The possibilities are endless.

When we finished and I bid the manager goodnight, I rushed into my car feeling pumped about tonight. The feeling didn't last when the car wouldn't start. "You've gotta be freaking kidding me." I said as I turned the ignition, but nothing. I looked around and noticed I am the only one in the parking lot. I began thumping my head on the steering wheel. Great. I am lucky enough to get away with murder, but I am not lucky enough to get this stupid rustic tin can to start.

There's only one thing I can do in a situation like this. I took my phone out, dialed the number, and waited for an answer. "Hey mom. My car won't start, and I need a ride home. Yes it won't start again. Don't blame me, this thing is what, as old as you. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Please don't leave me stranded. I love you." She hung up and I sighed as I began whacking my head on the steering wheel again