Not much commentary. Trying to stay busy and all that jazz. Check here for past issues, and the rest of the fiction below the fold. Unrelated, Sullivan sends this to me to read.
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Since I now knew that Jon meant the other seven, I got up at my normal time. I took my shower at my normal time. I had breakfast as usual. Christine was out the door as normal, she even ruffled my hair and told me I missed out. Then, I put on the stupid Olive Garden shirt and made my way to work with a half hour to spare. I spent that time pretty much just sitting in the car praying that I didn’t hear any weird noises.
Satisfied with my car’s hum, I was the second person inside. The first person inside was our manager. I knew she was inside because as soon as she saw me, her harridan-like voice cut through the empty store: “Lucy, my office. Now.”
I hated going into people’s offices. It gave me flashbacks to principal offices. I never was bad enough to go to them, but I heard stories. The sorts of stories that make your hair turn white with fright. In some schools, I heard, the nuns were allowed to hit you. And not on the knuckles. I think my face may have blanched just a little bit as I went in.
“Close the door,” She said. Annette is our manager. She is not very nice. She isn’t not very nice in a Christine way, which I find humorous since it is safely directed at not me. She isn’t even mean, per se. She’s just not nice. Like, see how she never said please? Even still, I closed the door. The please was implied, sort of like the subject in an imperative sentence.
“I’ve left you in charge of training the new hires, right?”
“Yes, you have,” I said.
“So, can you tell me what happened yesterday?”
“No, I can’t,” I said. I quickly recovered. “What I mean is, Fiona was filling in for me.”
“Our new hire quit,” Annette said. “She said she didn’t know how to fish when she called me. That was between sobs.”
I think Annette was mad that someone else made an employee cry. That was her domain. “I don’t know how to fish either.”
Annette is not conversational. “Of course you don’t! You’re some college educated egg head who can’t even teach people how to carry dishes.”
“Fiona was doing the teaching!” Or maybe Sam. The point was, it wasn’t me.
“Don’t make excuses,” Annette said. “I want you to call Heather and apologize to her. Then, I want you to tell her that she can come in for her shift. Then, I want you to not screw up. Do you want this job, or not?”
I didn’t, but I said I did. This wasn’t out of misplaced loyalty to anything but the almighty dollar. Annette left me in the office with the phone and Heather’s number, sort of like when parents would leave kids with a whole box of cigarettes to smoke to teach them their lesson. I was so nervous, I’d probably vomit too. Dialing the number was surprisingly hard work.