Chapter 19
At work there is a short little guy from El Salvadore whose blonde wife of two years does research for the dental school at UPenn. He always smiles as he tells me about her, looking so proud and blushing.
I think I'll write down everything I've experienced at this store, then move on to something better.
There is a tall, elderly man who keeps giving me gory forensic mystery novels. I really enjoy them. He lives across the street from The Market and his face looks rather like a turtle's. He is so awkward that a conversation will often end with him sauntering off in the middle of a sentence, his words trailing after him like reluctant puppies.
In the building's rear wall, there is this suspicious little window nestled between the chilled flanks of packaged slaughtered cattle on the right and shrinkwrapped dead fowl on the left. Below it lie three shelves of assorted Italian pepperoni.
Behind this quite overlookable window works an aproned sleazeball named Pete, whose occupation includes the butchering of animals and the ogling of women much younger than himself.
I noticed today that the douchebag millionaire of a store owner/tyrant named Jason got a haircut. He was bald to begin with, so I'm at a loss for what exactly what change may have taken place. Everyone seems tense today in our little row of captivity. Bulgarian Steve doesn't, though -- but that's not part of the equation, as he's generally oblivious. English-speaking anxiety is nothing new. Steve once called Hitler "a pretty okay guy."Nora just told me that Vince with the moustache lost his balls at some point in life and now has begun to wear vaseline-filled surgical gloves while sleeping.
Pawel's last day was a week ago, though he quit at the beginning of November. I miss being able to exclaim "verdammte Scheisse!" and being understood. Before leaving, he told creepo-perv Pete that he intended to marry an American girl. Specifically, me. Pedophilia can only go so far. Say, Germantown, Kensington, and my mother's fiance's bedroom in the 1990s. Let's change the subject.
The cash office is housed behind darkened glass panels that are slightly reflective to those trying to look in.
It. Is. Fucking. Freezing. And therefore, I am wearing a furiously festive Santa hat. Steve just asked me which chapter I might happen to be currently scribbling furiously on register tape with a runny ballpoint pen.
Nineteen. The nineteenth chapter. A la my age.
Update: Steve does not like Hitler. Poland is full of idiots, a few of which may, unfortunately, have nice asses.
Update: I have since yelled a lot and quit that job. More to come on a ridiculous lowering of standards and working the streets of Philadelphia. Rusk(TM) recruitment and September-purchased fishnets to be dusted off and put into action. Ahoy!
by Becca