— "Pattie, I'm gonna go turn the money in."
It's 9:30 pm, the dishes are all done going threw the restaurant-grade washer (and Pattie), the floor had been swept clean by me; mopped half-assed by the almost-50-year-old wench —now all I have to do to get the fuck out of here is deposit the $411 dollars that the store made tonight.
— "Alright Franky, hurry back"
Fuck you.
— "Alright Pattie."
All that's between me and my couch now is this $411. I throw the money into a little snap-open-and-shut thing — where the plastic-bagged money gets put, by me thrown, in. It's inside a little shaft of a room — there's a 4'-by-2' tan colored desk on the right side of the room with a sing-in sheet snatched onto a binder carrying 300 white similar looking sheet, I sign it. There's this shelf filled up with miscellaneous Macy's gift-cards, bogo and cash-back coupons homing in them, at the end of the room. Im surprised I didn't trip over one of the damn boxes with plastic and paper polluting the floor — this place obviously sucks, it's creepy.
Alright now that that's done I'm out!
— "Later Pattie!"
— "Bye frank. See you Saturday"
It's only Thursday and she's already just waiting to make me miserable.
— "Sounds good, Bye!"
I usually go down to the 1st floor via elevator but I see a group of Katie's walking from the escalator so I think I'll go down that was this time — I'm only on the third floor so it's not going to be that tough.
— "Barley leaving huh."
— "Yeah. Is was hard cleaning up after all of you."
— "Oh you love cleaning after me."
What does that even mean? What am I even supposed to say to that?
— "Whatever."
— "See you tomorrow."
— "Sounds good."
What does that even mean? How am I supposed reply to a comment like, "You love cleaning after me?"
That's psychotic! and I don't even think she understands how offensive that comment is! The cute ones are always nuts.
There's a mirror on the way out of the first floor but I never look at it. I don't see any need in checking myself out after working 6 hours, I don't need my reflection to tell me I look like shit. I avoid the mirror. Gina doesn't.
— "Hi, Franky! Did you cut your hair?"
— "No, it feel off."
— "Wow, you look really good."
— "Aww thanks. I miss my hair though, I can't hide under it now."
I cut my hair to help me start fresh. My girlfriend says its a sorta symbolic way to to help me renew myself; I thought I'd help me quit smoking weed.
— "Why would you hide yourself?"
— "I don't know, it's comfortable I guess."
I clock out by entering my i.d. number and my pin (it's the one I use for all my passwords) into this old computer that's still running on windows XP. Macy's-grade.
I slowly see two cop cars creep up as I climb the 15-step stair case.
— "What's going on?"
— "Oh hey! There here for you."
I got nervous for a second before I knew she was kidding. I thought maybe LP got footage of me stealing the spinach feta wrap
— "Oh no who told them."
— "There in there looking for you right now."
— "Oh no I better run to my car!"
I see my little beat-up dust-tinted silver Nissan Sentra. I haven't gotten a car wash but there's clouds blowing in. I think it's the Santa Ana winds.
I start my car but my anxiety bubbles up when dash board lights up. The orange little gas-pump and "service engine soon" coupled with the red flickering get-oil graphic creeps me out but I'm going to change my oil tomorrow.
I fumble for my cord that connects my music to play out my car speakers. The 25 mile ride home would be the death of me if it weren't for The Growlers, me singing along to all of their songs (or memorizing the ones I don't remember too well), and the drivers-side winder ridding all the way down solo. I love the 405's 85-mile-n-hour breeze. The cool air is freeing.
I get home pretty fast when I work closing shifts.
