Samson

One

"That will be fifty dollars and seventy-five cents," I smile politely, automatically, at the woman in front of me, and she frowns in response.
"I thought it was supposed to be cheap here," she grumbled, digging through her bag for her purse. I fight back the urge to say even things that cost a dollar all add up when you're buying five bags worth but hold my tongue. She doesn't seem like she's in the mood for a lesson in basic maths and common sense and to be honest I don't even care. She could have slapped me across the face and I would have kept smiling because a) I need this job and b) at least she would have been acknowledging I exist, unlike most people in this town. Sometimes I think I must be invisible, maybe the ugly green visor some corporate monkey decided it was mandatory for me to wear is actually a magic cloak of invisibility, they probably cheaped out on having all the chemicals and stuff for the dye tested and it ended up having this cursed side effect that isn't mentioned in the employee uniform manual. But then I take the hat off and I get the same treatment and I know it's not true- it's just me. I'm just not someone people care about.

The woman dumps a mess of coins and notes on the counter and I count through it and then hand her her change and receipt. She snatches it and is halfway out the door before I'm even finished telling her to have a nice day. Another satisfied customer.

I try and lean back on the edge of the cashier booth to ease the pressure on my aching feet. We're not allowed to sit down because it looks "unprofessional" even though I personally feel watching the girl scanning your groceries hop miserably from foot to foot trying to shift the weight off them for a split second of relief looks a lot worse. But maybe I just don't have the brain for these kinds of things. That's why I'm standing down here in the booth and they're up there in their comfy padded chairs making all the decisions. There are cameras pointed right at me but I learned the hard way they don't work when they thought the till was $30 short because I'd stolen from them and they couldn't pull the footage to prove my innocence because there was none. Turns out Morris, my brilliant boss, had just miscounted. I think he read one book in high school and it was 1984 and he's using it like a business manual. I wonder what he'd be like if he'd read The Catcher in the Rye instead. Maybe I should start slipping some more inspirational reading under his door - are there any books where the boss is super kind and generous and lets his employees sit down? I don't think I could change him at this point anyway.

 He loves those fake cameras. He made me promise not to tell the other employees what I knew. He gave me a coupon for my silence but the jokes on him because the other employees don't talk to me anyway. I tried to talk to the other guy that's always here once. His name is Shane and he mostly works the floor putting stock away on his own but sometimes I have to help him if he's running behind and sometimes he has to help me if there's a really long line of impatient customers. It was my first week, when I still felt something close to hope and excitement about my life, when I was stupid enough to think maybe I could make friends here. So when Shane walked into the break room while I was having my lunch I smiled at him, a real smile not a customer service smile, and said hello. He glanced at me sharply and kept heading for the fridge. "I don't know you," he said gruffly. "Why are you talking to me?" 

I was obviously taken aback. You do know me, I thought. We unpacked a whole pallet of frozen peas together. I had thought that was a bonding experience. Sure, we hadn't talked at all but I assumed it was companionable silence, not regular silence. I said nothing and sipped my Joja Cola nervously. Shane didn't notice, he grabbed his lunch out of the fridge and sat down at the table across from me, not looking at me once. Still, I wanted to give it another shot. He was probably just hungry, maybe he'd be friendlier once he had some food in him? I was just thinking about what conversational thing I could say about his egg sandwich that was nice and not "how are you eating that, it's so much egg, I almost want to throw up watching you eat that," when Morris barged into the room looking like he was about to explode. 

"Why are you both in here at the same time?!" he yelled. "Do you think the customers will just serve themselves??"

I sighed and hastily crumpled up my own sandwich wrapper, tossing it in the bin on my way back to the registers. I tried to share a "Can you believe this guy? I hate our boss!" look with Shane but he refused to make eye contact with me and I had to admit defeat. I thought we shared a common enemy but apparently working at Joja Mart is every man for themselves. 

When the new guy started I didn't even bother to try and say hello. He always had headphones on and just seemed out of my league, socially. You could tell this guy was well liked, had friends. He had two people waiting for him one day when we were leaving work, a guy smoking a cigarette and a girl with purple hair. I knew I wasn't as cool or interesting as them. I tried smoking once and I coughed a lung up and I did try dying my red hair one time too but it didn't take. I've never even considered dying it a fun colour. So I kept to myself. My solitary Joja existence.

At the end of the day I put my apron and non-magic visor in my locker and put a cardigan on over my Joja polo top. I accidentally make eye contact with Shane as he's closing his own locker.
"No, I don't have time to chat with you." He says harshly, as if I was desperate to chat with the valleys surliest resident. He pulls the hood of his jumper up over his head and pushes out of the door ahead of me, walking ahead of me by three steps as if we're not both taking the same path. I don't even bother to leave a little more distance between us anymore, I used to stay back and pretend to be fussing with something, looking in my bag or tying my shoelace, but I can't be bothered with that kind of theatre anymore. 

When we hit the town centre he splits off towards the saloon and I cut through it, heading for the bus stop. I catch only bus that comes through Pelican Town anymore. Sometimes I wish they'd scrap it altogether, and I'd have to take the train even though it would mean a lot more walking and take up a lot more time. I have a lot of time to waste. I have nothing but time to waste, really. Plus, there's something about travelling by train that's more elegant, more romantic, more serious than getting the bus. Maybe I've just seen too many old movies with romantic goodbyes at the station. Maybe I should read more Agatha Christie novels about people being murdered on trains to balance it out. Maybe I should buy a car (this is the most unrealistic option.)

It's Friday and there are plenty of people around, people I recognise and even know by name from their repeat patronage of our great discount grocery store. They don't know my name, even though it's always right there spelled out in clear letters on my big plastic name tag. Lily. No one says "Bye Lily!"
"Have a nice weekend, Lily!"
"Can't wait to see you on Monday, Lily!"
No one even looks at me at all.