Mel

1

Down here in downtown LA, you see all sorts of shit. I live so close to Skid Row I'll be mistaken as one of them. Poor, gross, wasted. Other belittling names. Real smart of me to get a job down here too, as a check-in and check-out cashier in an auction.

I guess I can't really complain, though. Work only Saturday night for about three hours and for $40. That's a deal. See, forty a week for working only one day, you don't get that anywhere else. Surprised I found that in Skid Row. I honestly don't see how a lot of them bid over ten items, either. But I know most of them just like to look and spend their Saturdays in Trachture's Auction.

Jackie May is the wife of the auction owner, Terrance. They're actually great people, and nice, surprisingly all the regulars were super nice and welcoming as well. I've come to know everyone's names and their numbers (I mean, I've worked her for about half a year now).

Terrance's wife is the one that hired me and was immediately pleased with how fast I learned, thanks to all my studying even over the summers. It's constant organizing and sorting, and dealing with little to no change at all. But I usually all the time get the numbers right.

I lean over the counter of my work area to see what they're holding up. Terrance announces it's an old glass cow figurine he's selling for a dollar. I can't see it, only the man's back. I don't bother to look if another ticket sheet has shown up yet, the first one has just come out and and has already been sorted. Plus, even though everyone will get a lot, the stuff doesn't sell that quickly.

I also wish there was service here, like actual service where you didn't have to hold your phone up forever. We do that when someone pays with a card. I start punching in a few notes and reminders on my phone when a voice scares the living hell out of me. I look up and see a small girl and large lady at the window, and I give my most welcoming smile.

"Hello," I greet. "Welcome to Trachture's Auction, can I help you guys?" The woman gives a nasty grunt. Well, damn okay. She examines the small-ish room around me. It's cluttered and I want to clean it up so badly but the narrow hall out of the door is cluttered as well.

I start getting mixed emotions of embarrassment and impatience and utter disbelief. I can't help but glance at her breasts either, they're unnaturally huge. Her breasts are like, double LMNOP's, and hanging out of her plain. White. Shirt. And it's a tank top. I have to keep from sighing and wait for her to answer.

What feels like five minutes, this lady looks at me and asks what time it is. I look down at my phone and tell her, "it's about 9:07. The auction is ending in 23 minutes, ma'am." She does her nasty grunt, and looks around the room again, now leaning her arm on the counter.

Okay seriously, what even is that grunt, I also have to keep from making a face. She sighs. "I'll have a number," she says still looking around the room. I really want to strangle this woman. "Are you new here?" I ask her. She says yes after a pause as if she actually does have to think about it. I give her the new number and tell her to fill out the bottom.

As I wait for her to do that, I start to write the new number's raffle ticket and the number on the attender count. I take the information sheet and hand her back her number and ticket and with a grunt, leaves. She takes a seat in the crowd. I sigh as I finish filling in the new number's information on our sheets.

****

The auction is now over and I'm relieved that woman didn't get anything; I really don't want to deal with her again. All those weird grunts and nasty looks when she really looks worse than the place itself. She can just pass on through and go home.

I finish checking out the regulars, the ones I have come to enjoy talking to, working, and hanging around with. Except for one. One regular has always made me feel sick to my stomach. Her plastic surgery and overdose of makeup, I just know what she's up to. She had made her boobs defy gravity and they're only half the size of that other woman's breasts. She's a slut. At least we never talk except for the "thank you" and "you're welcome" exchange.