Frankenstein's Girlfriend

2: Kings and Conquerors

“Are you telling me the customer’s real name was Bitchasaurus,” Dana asked the scraggly-haired jerk in the smock sitting in front of her, obviously knowing that was not the case.

To Dana, a receipt was a sacred bond of trust between customer and fruit juice smoothie provider. There was nothing else in the world so honest and straightforward. Listed on the crumbled up certificates, mostly in and around the store’s thin metal garbage can, were the authentic hopes and dreams of the thirsty, huddled customers yearning for Berrynana™ smoothies. The job of the cashier: to accurately transcribe these transactions for the sacred financial records, which included punching in the correct names of those who longed for their tasty wonders.

When it all went as planned, it was a beautiful ecosystem. Customer received their delicious beverage, Cashier felt content for satisfying Customer, Manager got to leave on time to go on her date, and later that evening, watch the new episode of Kings and Conquerers. Only an idiot could screw this up, like the slouching idiot in her tiny office, in front of her tiny desk, with no synapses firing in his tiny mind.

“No one reads their receipts,” Patrick countered. “Who cares?”

“But what if the customer did read her receipt?” Dana wondered. “She might have emailed it to the consumer rights blogs, turning it into the big story of the day: ‘Juiceroo In Dino-Sized Trouble!’ Soon, we’d become a nationwide scandal, militant feminists protesting out front, the Natural History Museum publicly shaming the company for mocking innocent dinosaurs, and there goes my chance at becoming a full-time manager. Hell, I’d be lucky if the state didn’t serve me with a restraining order, requiring me to keep 20 feet away from pomegranates at all times.”

Dana nervously re-adjusted the band on her brown ponytail, then wiped her sweaty, shaking palms onto the bottom half of her mother’s loose, 90’s vintage white blouse, creating temporary palm prints. The thought of this tragedy overwhelmed the amygdala of Dana’s imaginative, 18 year-old brain. The situation was clearly spiraling out of control.

“Patrick, it’s part of my job to go through the receipts at the end of the day,” Dana’s scolding continued. “You must have known that even if the customers never look at the receipts, I do.”

“Whatever,” Patrick shook the hair out of his face. “Again, who cares?”

Dana imagined herself strangling Patrick to death, like Princess Ja’lura strangled that disobedient horse in Kings and Conquerors. This was the method Dana thought would work best:

1. Dana asks if he wants to “get high” (as her fellow teens would say), and he agrees, because he’s probably never refused an invitation to “get high” in his life.

2. Patrick thinks to himself, she’s so uptight because she needs to party – a total librarian-taking-off-the-glasses- and-she’s-hot thing, 80s music videos being his primary source of reference.

3. After a few “toke-em-ups,” Dana says all will be forgiven if he plays that new song he wrote on his acoustic guitar, “Poster Boy (For Sorrow).” Someone asking to hear him play? Again, he couldn’t possibly refuse.

4. While Patrick’s in mid-jam, she quickly grabs the guitar out of his hands and smashes it over his head! Very punk rock, she’d think to herself.

5. With Patrick stunned and immobilized, Dana would grab a guitar string, wrap it around his neck and bingo bango.

Still, what do you do with the body? The thought of using the juicers to dispose of the evidence gave her chills, and she chided herself for even thinking of disrespecting the purity of the immaculate blenders that way. Also, she wasn’t really the murdering type, but Dana was a planner in all respects.

“Look, are you gonna give me a warning or what,” Patrick blurted out. “I’ve got someplace important to be. Maybe you’ve heard of it: Smitty’s Open Mic Night?”

“I’m familiar with Smitty’s,” Dana responded coldly.

“Then let’s just get this over with already, dude.”

“I couldn’t agree more.” Dana breathed in, and then leaned forward in her chair. “You’re fired.”

Patrick immediately stood up, filling much of the air in the closet Dana wishfully called “her office.” He dramatically smacked his hands on her desk.

“You can’t do that! You’re a Temporary Assistant Manager! You can’t fire anyone, you bitch monster!”

Dana stood up and stared Patrick right in the eyes.

“Eric gave me the authority of Manager when he left with his family for Vacation Club Island. I’m in charge and in my Juiceroo, when an employee calls a customer ‘bitchasaurus’ and then his superior ‘bitch monster,’ the manager has the unpleasant duty of relieving that employee of his responsibilities as cashier.”

She extended her hand out of professional courtesy: “Juiceroo wishes you lots of success in all your future endeavors, numb-nuts.”

Patrick immediately turned around and violently tore down Dana’s “Smoothie of the Month” mini-calendar, storming out of her office like an opening act getting booed off stage.

Dana followed him through the narrow corridor, past the unisex bathroom, where he shed his Juiceroo smock and threw it backwards into her face. He stormed through the kitchen, grabbed a bag of nectarines and pelted them at things – knocking over a blender (the poor thing!), soaking one of the track lights on the ceiling in juice, splattering bits of fruit onto a sign that said, “Boost-Up Your Day With a Super-Shot of Energy Powders!”

He gave Dana not one, but two middle fingers while walking backwards out of the front door. Forgetting that it was a “pull” door, he smacked his head against the glass. Patrick shook off the blow and exited the building.

Dana sighed and looked for the janitor’s closet key on her bulky silver key ring. Her date, and her later appointment with the dashing Sir Orogon of Bloodsmear, would now be delayed.