Dream Job

Bored. Bored, bored, bored. Slow. Dreary. Tedious.

Time does not shop here. Even the automatic doors sigh pathetically as they slide slowly closed behind each triumphant shopper, shuddering together, only to be separated again by the inevitable arrival of the next customer.

One in. One out.

Sometimes I honestly think they queue up outside, just out of sight around the corner, and intentionally stagger their visits.

One in; An old lady whose sole purpose is to find the one mispriced item in the shop and demand it at the ‘proper price’ she knows it should be. ‘How can i help you?’ One out.

One in; a couple of children who buy each item individually, excitably counting their change each time until it is no longer enough for the cheapest sweet. ‘Is that everything for you?’ One out. One in; a junkie asking for notes in exchange for his pockets of change which he drops onto the counter. This one, I find particularly irksome, as he comes in from his corner nearly every hour with anything up to twenty pounds of change and as I hand him the note I am very aware that he is making more than me. I always thought people went to work for the money but by my maths I’m losing three pound an hour being here.

My mind wanders. Often. The train that is my conscious undertakes some impressive journeys standing behind this counter. It’s powered by Boredom. It sets off from Monotony, a large empty town with clocks everywhere, over the bridge of Regression which crosses the Tangent River; fall off here and you’ll be swept straight into Procrastin-Ocean. Then the tracks wind and loop through a valley through the Brooding Mountain, their great summits blocking out the glowing light of the Ponder-Sun.

Occasionally, the train has a short stop at the many stations which are reality. My journey halted by some stranger seeking custom. I hurry the sale, anxious to get back to my daydreaming. ‘Would you like a bag with that’, I ask despite only selling a carton of milk. ‘Not if you have to pay’, replies the regular in disdain. She knows she has to pay but routinely verbalising her resentment seems to be her form of justice. Why should she have to pay five pence to destroy the world? Her fingers might get slightly cold holding a pint of milk and she shouldn’t have to risk it bursting in her pocket. It’s her right, as a human being, to warm fingers and empty pockets.

The doors shudder shut again. Seconds pass and no-one enters. I stare at the doors for a further second … and I’m off again.

The train passes through the dark Introspection tunnel… ‘Would you like a bag with that?’ …Woosh, out into the endless expanse that is Ego desert… ‘Is that everything?’ …I pass the twin Monuments Of Obsession . ‘Here you go. Cheers. See you soon.’… As the train passes through the forest of Deep-Thought, it sputters, stutters and stops; a broken engine, a mind blank. This phenomenon can often happen in the wilderness of Deep-thought. I dismount from my transportation and meander through the nearby trees, unable to think. I’m walking in circles. Suddenly a bright spirit appears: an Epiphany. I hear the train whistle its eagerness and run back to it as it trundles into motion. And we’re off again. Plenty more to explore.

‘Ehem!’

There’s a gun pointed directly at me. Holding the gun is a gloved hand connected to a sleeved arm. I follow the arm along to a jacketed body which is supporting a balaclava clad head.

‘Gi’ me all ‘e cash’, the balaclava asks politely.

I don’t hesitate to open the register and hand over all the money. This job does not pay nearly enough to risk life, or even injury. A paper cut is too much blood for this job. I bundle all the notes up and pass them over.

‘Nae enough’ he informs me ‘Keep goin’!’ I grab a bunch of gold and silver and pass them to him but his hands are limited, he is clearly over encumbered and the coins spill onto the counter. The assailant looks at me through his mask with dead eyes and I see them turn malicious. A little pee escapes me.

‘Would you like a bag with that?’