The Cashier.2

Written by: Sana Anuar

It is early August. The unbearable heat of July is long gone, and the fresh breeze of June and May is history. Autumn is knocking on the door tastefully painting the leaves on the trees into the lifeless colour of brown and letting them fall from their branches, picked up by the restless wind howling outside as it wanders around the identical wide streets of the suburban town. This ferocious beast is accompanied by its fellow lover of hellish shrieks, thunder. Together they create an unbearable melody akin to those of the ghosts with rain being the percussionist as the drops hit the ground and the ceiling of the pathetic little building that I found myself as an asylum and a cage.

My jail and my shelter is a lousy damp gas station with its gut-wrenching stink of oil and expired pastries packed in their plastic wrapping advertising their contents in an unnatural and fantastic manner that leaves a poor aftertaste in one’s mouth. Literally.

I have been working here as the cashier for what feels like an eternal couple of months, occasionally replaced by A, as she begins her night shift. Poor girl has to spend her days studying her soul off at university and then be stuck in these unwelcoming four walls. I on the other hand was quite excited to start working here at first: I thought having my own money would give me the feeling of independence that I so longed for. The infantile enthusiasm that filled me then did not last for much. Turns out I would be chained to a different kind of fetter in the face of this mercilessly boring job. There are barely any car owners who do us the honour of getting their gas here, as they much prefer to drive away to the big city and pretend to be the sophisticated locals of the metropolitan. Instead, I must deal with the pedestrian dwellers of our little province who come here to buy cheap food, alcohol, or cigarettes as they do not find the strength in themselves needed to go to the supermarket which is slightly further away. Alas, this is the activity that is deemed appropriate for my age, and so I must patiently wait for the hands of the clock to form a 120-degree angle.

I have found ways to entertain myself to preserve my sanity for a little longer. There is no cell service inside this building for some reason, and that would have upset me had I had any friends to talk to on the phone. Instead, I made myself an eager viewer of the tiny TV set hidden just under the counter that the owner once brought from his own house after buying a new, flat one. The only channels that I find interesting are those broadcasted from the nearest foreign town. They are all transmitted in English, however, one remarkably unproductive day I accidentally figured out a way to switch the language to the original. Ever since, I have been using the time I would have otherwise wasted on nothing, on learning the new language instead. I have presently become somewhat fluent in it and you could not find a better connoisseur of the state and public affairs of the neighbouring country even among its citizens. You would not believe my joy when a foreign newspaper began supplying our store with their issues. The actual contents and writing of it are mediocre at best, which would explain why they would try and expand their audience by sending their product to such a God-forgotten place. Nonetheless, it did serve as a means of satisfying my new obsession, which I now treasure.

Going back to the present, the only other intriguing part of this room is perhaps the front wall consisting merely of glass, providing a panoramic, as much as it is possible, view of the road outside. Occasionally, when I am in a melancholy mood preventing me from blissfully indulging in the avoidance of the world by consuming foreign media, I look through the stained glass and ponder about practically any subject known to man, as if I were a renowned philosopher of the modern age. There is not much to be deciphered from the outside view right now as a result of the raging weather. There is something therapeutic in watching storms happening outside as one sits in the questionable comfort of the indoors. A white plastic bag seems to be flying outside from afar. I curse the person who would leave it on the street to be picked up by the wind, however before I get a chance to continue my inner triumphant monologue, the bag runs into the door. Oh. It is a customer.

— Why, hello! — says the voice opening the door, slightly deafened by the noise of the bells above it, — What horrible weather, am I right? — The tone of the voice was strikingly similar to the sound of the bells – a high-pitched, silvery start with a sudden and awkward silent ending, awaiting a response back.

I stay silent, lowering my gaze to the foreign magazine on my lap.

The customer stood on the doorstep for a split second, naively hoping for an answer. Once the futility of the action had been made clear, I heard the sound of a whiff of air escaping one’s nostrils which is characteristic of the awkward smile one makes when trying to escape an uncomfortable situation. Somewhat confused and scared steps followed to the freezer where the ice cream was stored. Whilst she was busy choosing the right treat for herself, I got to steal a quick look at her. The customer turned out to be a woman in her late 20s, perhaps early 30s; she had a white raincoat on her which I had mistaken for a plastic bag as she approached the shop. Her hands were meticulously delicate: the skin visibly cared for and the nails covered in gel that shined mother of pearl – a type of style that looked like something a wealthy woman trying to imitate a nun would wear. That and the way she carried herself gave the impression of a lady from high society, however, everything else about her look contradicted it. The clothes she wore were a mismatched outfit one would only wear at home, the one that everyone is feared to be seen in by even their closest friends; her long hair looked like she had not done anything to it at all since she came out of her bedsheets. There was a certain nervousness in the air around her. I could see her hands shaking ever so slightly and her eyes desperately trying to focus on the packaging as if she were an elementary schooler called upon by her teacher to read out letters that were yet unfamiliar to her. The shine of her nails was almost identical to the shine of the bags under her eyes. I wondered whether it was the rain that got her face wet.

Once I stopped examining the customer, I realised she was holding one of the ice cream buckets I had the duty of “prolonging” yesterday. You see, in order not to have a surplus of expired products, Boss orders me to change the dates on them every so often. I must admit, I have become quite skilled at the job – so skilled that even a bank worker whose job is to control the validity of cheques would not be able to tell the difference, let alone a random woman from the town. A previously unknown feeling of pity sparked bright in my chest – whatever happened to that woman, I would not want to worsen her situation by being responsible for a food poisoning.

I stood up as quickly as possible, “Wait-” I suddenly exclaimed, before a cup of hot tea I brewed myself moments before she came in fell onto my lap. I am then taken fully by an excruciating pain: it felt like a thousand of the world’s sharpest and smallest needles were stabbed into me all at the same time; it felt like I was in the lowest, most cruel circle of Hell with Satan torturing me in the depths of burning fire, making my skin melt, my muscles fried like a steak on a nuclear family’s barbeque night, the marrow of my bones escaping what is left of my body in the form of ash. Before my eyes I saw an unhinged composition of fireworks, all too bright, all too colourful, and somehow too loud.

— Hm? — I am thrown back from my tortuous journey to the damp gas station. — You said something? — says the silvery voice.

— No. — I sat back in my seat. The woman looked at me in a puzzled manner for a brief moment and gave me an innocent smile with the saddest eyes I have ever seen in my life. Ten seconds ago, this would warm my heart and perhaps make me finally do some good deeds, but now everything I feel towards that woman is pure hatred.

– The storm today is terrible – says she, putting her snack on the counter. She is repeating her previous remark. I can’t stand it when people do that. – You know, until the very last second I thought I was going to stay home, – there was a pause and she looked into my eyes while I was scanning the barcode, inviting me to ask her what had changed her mind. I stare back at her blankly. Slightly bothered, but keeping up the act, she continues – but then something rather… unpleasant (she squinted slightly as the world left her tongue) had happened and I just had to go out! Can you believe it? – she flapped both of her hands as if she had just made a grand joke, supporting the gesture with an awkward chuckle.

– $3.99 – I say, even though the ice cream only costs a dollar. She doesn’t look like she’s short on money, anyway.

– Here, – she hands me a five dollar banknote, – leave the change to yourself. – What generosity! – Say, do you happen to know where the pharmacy is? I’m quite new to the town – Another blood-boiling stiff laugh followed, however this time there was a stronger pathetic, perhaps begging tone in it.

– No – two streets to the left of the gas station, turn right, cross the road. My anger prevented me from telling her that.

– Oh, well, thanks anyway. – she puts on her stage-like smile once again and exits the room like a defeated soldier. I could still see her struggling against the wind for a couple of minutes before she disappeared completely.

I changed into A’s uniform apron, as mine was stained and wet from the damned tea. Not that the stain made a big difference anyway, the bright grape-purple colour of our uniforms was ugly either way. Perhaps, it could be a fashion statement of sorts.

Trying to wind myself down, I relaxed by continuing to read one of my beloved foreign newspapers. I no longer need the assistance of a dictionary every time I turn a page and that brings me immense joy, which made me almost forget the disastrous customer. However, before I could finish this utmost delightful article on the unbelievably baffling legislation about the introduction of robots in factories in the neighbouring country that the president dared to sign, I was rudely interrupted by another customer.

– Hiya buddy, – the overly friendly tone of the voice was already irritating me, – sorry to bother ya, I just wanted to know if this old man could stay here until the rain calms down.

The new customer turned out to be a relatively short man of a stout build. He looked around the same age as the woman before, except for an ill-fitting moustache, a giant caterpillar laying on his upper lip, and his hair, which looked like it had been sprinkled with white chalk-dust, greying his hair seemingly inappropriate, which visually aged him up a decade. He was dressed incredibly lightly, as if he were going out to the beach on a sunny day and the rain completed this image by soaking him in water. A complete passerby, unaware of the weather outside, would have imagined him getting into this condition as a result of his children pushing him into their pool during a swimming party. Indeed, there was something that suggested a fatherly feel to this man or, perhaps, the feel of the “funny” uncle who teaches the kids inappropriate expressions for the sake of everyone’s, except the parents’, entertainment.

– You can buy something and stay here during the process.

– Ah, ya see buddy, – stop calling me that – I haven’t got a penny on me. I was in such a hurry to leave the house, I forgot to bring my damned wallet with me. I mean, surely, you’ll understand me, right? – As he said those words, he made a motion of leaning on the counter in a jokingly relaxed way. His eyes were on a higher level than mine, and I speculated whether he meant to do that to intimidate me.

Still, I eyed him from the persuasive expression on his face to his elbow on the counter, in front of me. I watched droplets of water slide down his arm to the table. I can not even be sure whether that is rainwater or his sweat. The stench of tobacco coming from him revolts me even more. I look up again to see his hopeful half-smile and begging eyes. There is nothing about this man that I do not despise.

– I’m afraid I can’t help you – I utter with the coldest voice.

– Bullshit! – the one hand he had on the counter now turned into a fist and slammed it, – Would it really bother you that much to let me just stay here? I won’t even ask for a chair or anything, – both of his hands became very animated, as if he were scaring away flies, and he took a small step back, – What is it? Are you so jealous of the air in this hole?

I stay silent.

The man curled his lips and sighed, putting his hands into his pockets,

– Ya know what? Fine. Have you any umbrellas here? Or anything you could lend me until tomorrow.

– I’m afraid I can’t help you – I repeat, burrowing back into my newspaper. A suspicious pause followed I realised he was looking at my literary treasure.

– Not even a newspaper? – he smirked.

– Newspapers cost money.

– Oh, shut up – said he, snatching the one I had in my hands. I was so taken aback, that I could not even do anything in response. I wanted to stand up and try to get it back, but immediately remembered what had happened the last time I tried to take the initiative to do so. Instead, I just sat there, looking back at the man.

He held the newspaper above his head in the same manner that an elder sibling would hold a toy that had just been taken away from a younger one to tease it. He stood there triumphantly, awaiting me to go after it. My lack of interest in playing his game visibly confused him as he kept his pose for another moment. Realising his sudden victory, he only gave a slight chuckle and shook his head, leaving the building with just one word:

– Weirdo…

I saw him awkwardly run on the street with a roof made out of the newspaper above his head.

– Fucking slip on your cheap-ass flip-flops!

– Um… Excuse me…

Where am I? Oh, right. The cramped cabin of a cashier. Apparently, I fell asleep to the soothing audio of some soap operas on the TV. Crap, I dreamt of laying on a beach under the sun far, far away from people. How do I go back?

– Excuse me…

A tiny head is poking from behind the counter. It is a boy of nine years at most. He is staring at me with his puppy eyes, or at least what is visible of them, his bowl cut covering half of his face.

– Excuse me, could I please buy these?

On the counter, I find a six-pack of cheap beer. I look around, searching for a possible adult escorting this child. Instead, I realise the rain has stopped and the sun is already setting. It is the golden hour. Just outside the door, two teenage boys are observing us, yet the moment I lay my eyes on them, they turn away snickering proudly.

– Here… – the kid shyly put a 10-dollar banknote on the table. The pack only cost $4.99.

“That’s twice as much as you need to pay” I almost caught myself saying. Who cares? The more money the better. I took the cash.

– Thank you for choosing us.

The kid was taken aback. God knows how many stores before this one those teenagers made him go to before for this prize.

– Thank you… – his voice was mostly relieved, but I thought I could hear the thinnest layer of disappointment in it as well. He quickly ran out of the shop to boast to his bosses that the mission was accomplished.

Curiosity filled me head to toe and so, I decided to observe what would happen next. The teenagers were as surprised as the kid himself, if not more. You could clearly see the joy on their faces as they already imagined themselves feeling the taste of underage drinking. Yet, suddenly, the two boys ran away with the six-pack in their hands, looking in a different direction. The confused child stayed where he was to see that ice cream woman running to him from where the teenagers were getting away. The most adorable pantomime took place as she took the boy in her embrace picking him up in the air and swirling him around. Oh, what could be better than the picture of a mother-son reunion? At this point, the sun had almost set, and the newspaper man suddenly appeared from the opposite side of the “stage”. He too, had a beer with him, except his was in a glass bottle, which he then proceeded to smash on the ground, still holding half of what was left of it by the neck, and swung his hand like a baseball player does with his bat and-

I wonder if I should quit.

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Written by: Sana Anuar

Contact info: 629sana@gmail.com