Clocking Out

Clocking Out

Created with DeepAI

The echo of that shame burned in her guts.

She wanted revenge.

She wanted to personally rip out eyeballs and cut off body parts.

She wanted to burn the whole town down—to miserable, ugly ashes, where only imprints of foundations and fireplaces would remain as proof the town ever stood.

She had enough of people looking down their crooked, upturned noses at her. She wanted to punch and kick all of them.

However, instead, she smiled and spoke politely. Everything was in top form and in its place.

“Hello there, Mr. Mewleski! Where have you been? I missed seeing your face!” Her fake smile hurt her cheeks.

“Well hello, young lady! You look mighty pretty today!” Predictable. He always said some variation about her looks every day.

Their small talk continued. All the same shit: family, job, economics, and government.

She wanted to shoot herself in the face. She hates small talk. Who really cares anyhow? It is just societal conformity.

Finally, she was free of that interaction. She breathed in a deep breath of freedom. She pushed her long burgundy hair behind her ears. It was her “tick.” She could never gamble. A drunk monkey could read her.

She had a wicked headache. If she didn’t mind her cute little melon, it would morph into an ER trip for a migraine. Luckily, in just fifteen minutes, she’d clock out, rip off her pharmacy coat, and run out of the building.

The clock ticked one painful jerk of the second hand at a time—slower than traffic jams in the summertime in Ft. Worth.

The shame of her mistake kept gnawing on her organs.

How come she was the one getting in trouble? Nothing bad happened.

She began to go through each moment of the interaction.

A young Mexican man with a motorcycle helmet and wearing gloves approached my window at the pharmacy. He was a good-looking young fellow.

His energy was a little strained. I noticed how his eyes were scanning the pharmacy.

As we were making disgusting small talk, my manager appeared behind the youngin. He was making the phone gesture by his head and moving his lips to say, “call 911.”

I was flabbergasted. Upset. Stressed.

How the hell was I supposed to call 911 while working with ol’ dude? I made a choice.

I told the guy, “Hey, you should go to pharmacy school.” I remarked how he seemed intelligent enough and that he could find grants and scholarships.

We laughed as I made nervous jokes.

He finally finished with me and turned and left.

About ninety seconds later, my manager reappeared. His face was flaming red. His dark, beady managerial eyes were narrowed and brooding with anger.

“The next time I tell you to call 911, you had better do it,” my manager screamed at me.

“I don’t understand. He wasn’t doing anything to us,” I said, genuinely perplexed.

“Look, he was acting suspicious. He had on gloves. I was sure he was going to rob us! Plus, it doesn’t matter. When I say call 911, you damn well better call.”

He stated this in all his glorious white privilege. I knew why he thought that about the kid. It was racial. I needed this job, so I didn’t protest.

All I could do was bow my head, red with anger and shame.

How dare he be so prejudiced.

He stormed off as if he was some big business. All he was—was a bitter little man working for a massive retail company.

Just another cog, my dude! Nothing special.

She clocked out, took off her white smock, and walked to her little sporty Mazda.

The night air always smelled so good after leaving work—fresh and full of autonomy.

She ruminated over not standing up to the manager and calling out his racism.

She was so mad and feeling shame.

She contemplated everything that occurred.

She realized she did nothing wrong. There was no robbery. No one was hurt or injured… well, not physically.

Why did she feel shame? Who knows. Probably something to do with an abusive childhood, is what some degree-holding ninny would say.

God, this job sucks ass, she thought. But it paid the bills, and she had enough money to make it paycheck to paycheck.

Had she spoken up, she probably wouldn’t have the job. Still, the embarrassment burned brighter than a giant straw man on fire in the desert.

You know what? Fuck it. She will not suffer fools!

In fact, that day she decided to look for another job. She found one in a week.

She left without looking back in the rearview mirror.