s.o.c.(memory, year ‘00 - ‘01)
Wednesday, December 19th, 2007
You were slicked back and hands in coat pockets, heavy steps on a faux wood floor. Eyebrows thick and an on purpose lean into the countertop—the girl behind it flicking chain back at you behind a gold watch. Who the fuck, right? It takes all kinds. I used to work in a bookstore that had the same misshapen clientele—business suits and old women that smelled like piss and animal fur, boys with skateboards and girls with friendship bracelets. We ordered the most brilliant art books just because we knew the rich guys upstairs would buy them, based on novelty alone. No one has this so I should most likely get it, right? Right, we said, nodding our heads and smiling sideways. We ordered obscurities because we could. There was a tiny book encased in a giant pillow that no one dared to open—we put it in the window display until, of course, a rich guy bought it. There was the coffee table picture book of all things DaVinci and the same man bought that too. We had our job down. My coworker was a ballet dancer who loved to comment on the shoes that walked in, his own polished to a squeak. He modeled part time—random shit. Straight ads. He showed me one—him on a couch with his so-called wife and his so-called daughter and his non-edible popcorn. They all gazed into an out of frame television, the glow igniting their eyes. Yeah, you look straight. That’s fucked up.
Suits would come in for their daily paper, make small talk. The night after the election we hung around the register longer—we all had something to say and wanted to spit in good company. Everyone that came in kept saying things will never be the same again. Prepare yourself. Now the shit hits the fan. The village idiot has taken office. I could only partially understand. I worked on stocking the shelves while my boss lit sage—he did this when he was trying to calm down, when he was pissed. The smell gave me migraines. I would squat to my ankles behind the counter and press fingers to temples, trying to fight it until I could go home. When he wasn’t looking, I would spit on the glowing speck where the smoke lifted, or I flicked water until it hissed into death.
