I’m laughing uncontrollably. I’m sure now that I am actually, totally, undeniably drunk. Wow. That’s the first time this has ever happened to me. Why am I laughing? I stepped off a curb wrong and nearly fell face first onto the pavement. It’s freaking hilarious! I have to finish this giant cowboy boot shaped glass before I can get onto the bus. They don’t allow alcohol. Come to think of it, they don’t allow drunk people, either. I better play it cool. This thought causes me to erupt into another laughing fit.
“Come on, Sam. You have got to get your act together. The bus will be here any minute.” It was almost difficult to have fun when Alex was being such a buzzkill.
“I know, just let me finish this drink. I don’t want it to go to waste. I want to keep the cup!” It tastes like strawberry flavored gasoline, but I don’t care. It was expensive, and the effects are fantastic. Now I can say what I really wanted to say. “Alex, I have to tell you something.”
“Oh, boy. What is it?”
“I like you.”
He looks at the ground, shaking his head. “I know. You didn’t have to say that.”
“No, I mean I really like you.”
“I know.”
“Do you maybe like me?”
He pauses. “Sam, I’m sorry. I don’t. This was a really bad idea. We’re not going to go out for drinks again.”
I look down, dejected. “But this was fun. Until this part.”
The bus pulls up and I suck the last sip of slushed drink from the toe of the cowboy boot. The bus is funny, and I laugh. They can’t know I’m drunk, I think to myself as I attempt to stifle a giggle while swiping my bus pass. I stumble down the aisle to the section of seats in the back that face each other. Alex sits on the back row, facing the rest of the bus. “You have got to calm down. You do not handle your liquor well.” That’s funny, too. Of course I don’t handle my liquor. I don’t drink!
“I’m sorry,” I say as my last giggle starts to die down.
“I know. Don’t think any more about it. I just want to make sure you get home okay. I’ll see you at work tomorrow.” This has been the Awkward Queen’s finest moment to be sure. It’s a self-titled position I try to take pride in, because it fits so well. Taking pride in being awkward is itself, a very awkward position. I’ve been this way forever, I might as well embrace it.
I got this job a year and a half ago. I was supposed to be working at the shop in the Tropicana, but they moved me to the one in the Excalibur. I liked the one at the Trop better. It was a tiny little shop and much less busy. My boss at the Excalibur location is what I would describe as a “party girl.” Always has to be the center of attention, wears too much makeup, speaks too loudly. She has a Spanish surname but speaks fluent Valley Girl and no Spanish. She is always getting on me to be more outgoing and vocal towards the customers. I try my hardest, it’s just not who I am. I come out with nothing but awkwardness. It’s palpable and can sometimes be off-putting. I can feel when that happens and I back off and let them shop, then get in trouble for not talking them up. I’d rather be chained to the register all day instead of made to do the section rotations. At least at the register all I have to do is upsell a tote bag. None of my other retail jobs ever required this level of extroversion. It’s completely foreign to me, but I’m told it shouldn’t be. I’m friendly and helpful and can talk down an escalation, I don’t know why I should be required to do more than that.
I stumble off the bus and down the sidewalk, finding that the key doesn’t want to cooperate and get into its little lock hole. After fiddling with it a few minutes, I am finally successful and stumble some more until I find my way onto my bed. The laughing spurts are dying down, and sad spurts are replacing them. Why did I do that? Work tomorrow is going to be so weird. He doesn’t like me. I sigh and sniff. My head is feeling very heavy, with thoughts and with alcohol. I put it down in the dark room and hope for a dreamless sleep. Why do I have to be this way? Forever the Awkward Queen. It’s my lot in life, I guess. Or maybe I’m just working at the wrong place.
After this wretched night, I completely lose interest in trying to be someone else. I do say hello to anyone who walks into the shop, no matter what my supervisors think they’re not hearing. I do help people pick out gifts and souvenirs. I do it my way, quietly. I’m not the pushy salesperson they want me to be. It isn’t me. If I walked into a store and was assaulted by a pushy salesperson, I’d be likely to walk out pretty quickly.
Party Girl doesn’t like me. I’m her opposite and she doesn’t understand me. She doesn’t want to. She’s not the first, and she wouldn’t be the last. She and her friend, the other supervisor, have it out for me and are looking for reasons to fire me. I could only kind of tell, but Alex confirmed it for me. He’d heard them talking in the back. She had not been the one to hire me, the district manager had. Party Girl only hires party people and guys with neck tattoos who smoke weed. It’s still illegal in Nevada and, surprise, surprise, he didn’t pass the drug test. Boo hoo. Bye-bye, boy toy.
Over the next couple of weeks, Party Girl notices I’m not even trying to be constantly boisterous and calls me into the back. I’m past all my warnings of being more “customer centered,” and terminated. It was going to happen sooner or later. I feel more relieved than depressed as I make my way home.