Pieces Part 1

Promises

Reality:

My eyes shot open as I slid off my chair to the supermarket floor. I couldn't say whether I was more irked about falling on the grimy tiles or for how embarrassedly I got caught up in my dreams, but neither feeling was too good.

I slowly craned to see my boss's gut hovering over me. That explained the sudden shade from the cash register's strobe lights.

"No sleeping on the clock!" He barked, redness peeking through his 5'o'clock shadow. Suffocated in a sweaty dress shirt and slacks he must've outgrown two decades ago, it still awed me that Mr. Stephenson's priority was to slap that brown toupée on his balding head every morning.

I lowered my gaze from my superior, glancing around the room. No more brick walls were trapping me at each side; no blinding lights and no bloodied clothes.

I was just in another dream. Thank God. Well, I shouldn't have called it a dream, but a nightmare.

And as quickly as I was relieved, I was reminded of the horrors of an equally unforgiving world—work.

Mr. Stephenson was less than enthused to witness my zoned-out state. Bending low enough that I could smell his deodorant-free stench, he growled, "This isn't your home; you're at work! Get off your butt and go take the trash out!" The rumble of his voice nearly sent me colliding into the legs of my chair.

Withholding my nerves, I replied, "Yes, sir." When I first started here, my interviewer said nothing about dipping into janitorial duties. Still, like everyone who had the displeasure of working under Mr. Stephenson, I understood that there were no strict 'roles' when you weren't the CEO. He considered himself the 'soul' of this supermarket, which wasn't even registered under any American business bureau—anyway, to him, that meant every employee was interchangeable. I could huff and grumble at the unfairness of it all, but there were few other above-minimum-wage jobs I could get hired at as a 19-year-old guy that wouldn't screw my body for life.

I knotted the wings of the trash bags across from me and shuffled out of my boss's sight. While I lumbered to the back exit, I could feel his eyes burning daggers into my back. Eugh.

As I entered the antechamber that saved us from the garbage area's fumes, I caught the eye of Tina propped up against a wall. She looked like one of those cool girls from high school—one leg crossed over the other, chewing gum without a care in the world, sandy tresses framing her high cheekbones. Her skin was freckled, but it gave her a girl-next-door type of charm. Then again, I might've idolized her since she was my best friend from childhood.

And my manager. Strange coincidence, huh?

She was dressed in black jeans that paired with a white peplum blouse. Her scarlet lips curved into a smile the moment I passed her.

"Another one, huh?" She remarked. I sighed and heaved my ripping garbage bag off the floor.

"Yeah, but it was nothing." I continued my path to the dumpster outside of the next door. Venting was just something best friends were supposed to do with each other, I guessed, but I didn't want to sound whiny. I glimpsed Tina following me—the weight on my arms lightened as she took one of the garbage bags.

"Good," she said. She forced me to look right into her eyes by how she positioned herself. "You know, I've started going to meditation classes recently. And one of the best pieces of advice I've gotten is that often, the best type of medicine is letting things go." A smile lifted her face as she launched her garbage bag into the dumpster. The several-feet-far toss managed to land perfectly inside the bin while I could barely reach the top of the garbage pile on my tiptoes. These are the perks of being a tall woman. Sometimes, I wished I could switch my 5" 4 stature with her extra 3 inches for a day, but then I realized I was simply clumsy. No change in height, as annoying as being short was, would change that.