“No way! That’s fucking disgusting!”
“Oh, come on! You’re stuck on top of a mountain, and there’s no food or water. It’s been at least a week, and you feel like you’re about to die. You’re telling me you would not drink your own piss if you had to?”
“No! Jesus, what the fuck kind of question is that!?”
There’s a very riveting conversation taking place behind me. My co-workers like to spend the end of the night shift talking about things like this, while I finish up rearranging the shelves. The guy who always starts these conversations is a nice enough dude, I guess. A young twenty-something who really loves his weed asking a girl about piss. This is his idea of flirting.
I said that he was nice, not smart.
I turn and add to the conversation. “I wouldn’t either,” I tell him.
“Okay, yeah, see…um, fuck. Okay, you chicks always say that you wouldn’t do shit like that, but let’s be real here: you would fucking do it if your lives depended on it. I fucking know it!”
I turn to the other co-worker, a girl barely out of high school who is only here until something better comes along. Hopefully soon, I’m sure she’s thinking. She has no interest in this guy or his lacking conversational skills, but she puts up with it for some reason. If I were in her position, I probably would have gotten fired for slapping him. I don’t hate the guy or anything, but fuck me, give it a rest! Guys always seem to think we care about their dicks as much as they do.
(That’s only true some of the time.)
The time is ticking down until we finally close and can get out of here. I see our boss, loaded up on caffeine and the most passive-aggressive mind I’ve ever seen in the retail world, which is really saying something, making the rounds. He doesn’t do any work himself, obviously, but he really likes to look over our shoulders frequently, in a way that he knows full well will make us uncomfortable. He’ll be here soon enough.
The real problem with this job is that it makes me feel like a misanthrope. I have no intention of hanging around this cast of characters outside of the workplace; they’re just a great way to pass the time. It’s very cliche to just say, “I don’t care,” but I kind of don’t. This is a job. I don’t want this. I want to be at home, on my couch, under a blanket, watching a movie with a pretty girl. I want to go to shows again, and fall in love with great music again. I want to join my friends in that “Bowling Night” they always go on about. I don’t want this: working with weirdos almost ten years younger than me just so I can appease some dickhead for a small amount of money.
But we can’t always get what we want, can we? With a sigh, I look back at the stoner and confess to him.
“Yeah, alright, you got me: If I had absolutely no other option, I would probably end up drinking my pee, okay?”