Thu, 19 May 2005

floor
I have spent most of my life too stupid to be afraid. I have worked with corpses, Bosnians with tattoos on their faces, masturbating janitors, pig killers, crack dealers and whores without a moment’s concern. But today I am afraid. I am wearing a snappy shirt and slacks and my duty is to sell office furniture. This means I have to talk to people, be friendly, shake hands. Three times today I have seriously considered suicide. I have to lie to people, tell them this desk is the last one in stock, that chair retails for twice the asking price. I pretend to like the Green Bay Packers, and I hate the Green Bay Packers. It’s like sucking cock for twenties, only sucking cock is a geniune service. I keep looking at the clock, which is in the storage room, and every time I go in there the floor boss shoots me a weird look. I keep thinking maybe I can fake an accident, pull a couple hundred pounds of oak shelving down on my head, stab myself with a pen. I’ve only been here for an hour. Nice-looking families who need a desk for the new computer that they already paid a thousand dollars too much for ask if they can cut me some kinda deal, it doesn’t have to look perfect, maybe there’s a scratch on it, and they stare at me, you know, maybe there’s a *scratch* on it. I go to the bathroom to throw up and the floor boss shoots me a weird look. Maybe over lunch I can get drunk, I tell myself, only three more hours until I can drive to Hy-Vee and buy six bucks worth of bad bourbon. I walk in circles under the air conditioning vents pretending not to see the customers. Maybe they’ll fire me if I punch one of the cashiers in the face. My shoes are too tight and I can’t stop clenching my teeth. Three more hours, I think. I can just leave for lunch and never come back.
(12:24.05.19.2005) [/scrytch] #