Fed Up with Y’all (2) by: Arsiema T. Gherahtu, Gouache, 2018
I didn’t expect anything other than having a regular day when I clocked into work this morning. I have a part-time gig at my local electronics store. It’s quite simple – I checkout whiny customers, process returns, and occasionally clean up trash around the store. Then I act like I’m invested in everything that my co-workers complain to me about, clock out, and head home for the day. Literally, everything else outside of work is more interesting – even having to face the fact that I’m paying for my first semester of community college with this worthless job, and the student loans that my parents have signed up for on my behalf.
You could imagine my dread when I was asked to clean up a customer’s vomit right before I went to lunch.
“What?” I blink at my manager, not understanding why I had to be handpicked for this.
“Just do it, Minnie” she mumbles lazily. “It’s right in front of the registers. We need it gone now. You’re the cleaning person for this hour so take care of it.” With that, she turns away from the dumbfounded look on my face.
I get paid $8.50 an hour…and I’m expected to pick up bio hazard waste?
Disgusting.
I want to cry inside. Seriously, why me? I can feel the gaze of my co-workers, relieved to not be in my place.
I muster up some courage and decide that the longer I wait, the longer it will take to get it over with. I push the yellow janitorial cart that I am so familiar with towards the mess. All I can think about is how this situation will forever be attached to this stupid cart. I can never look at it the same.
Something smells sour and rotten as I get closer to the registers, and I discover the filth. The discolored chunks and pool of thick, stomach acid cause me to gag. I think I see pieces of baby carrots.
That’s it…I can’t hold it in. I throw up right next to the mess.
My supervisor is angry and dismisses me, saying that she will find someone else to do it. I feel so humiliated as I trek to the restroom. All I wanted today was to work and study at home.
I didn’t want to be in such an awkward situation, and I do everything I can to avoid attention. As I wash my mouth, I can’t bring myself to look in the mirror because I know my eyes will fill up with tears.
I hurry to the break room and ignore the figure from across the room, hoping that he hasn’t heard about my incident. I purchase a Pepsi from the vending machine and sit down, wishing for this day to be over already.
“Are you the one that threw up on the throw up?” He asks. I can hear his quiet chuckles.
I swing around in my seat and meet his eyes. It’s Coby, the new guy. He’s wearing this mustard green sweater that I’ve hated since he was hired about two weeks ago. The color is just so unappealing to me. It’s fashion’s answer to a swamp. The sweater makes him look like somebody’s snarky granddad who plays bingo on his off days. I’m sure he’s only in his early 20s, so he shouldn’t be dabbling in the wardrobe of the elderly. The nerve of him to tell me what to drink when he can’t even dress his age.
“It’s not funny.” I turn back to my soda and take a large gulp. As sad as it sounds, this drink is making me feel slightly better.
“You should throw out that soda,” Coby suggests, sitting next to me at the table. I am fighting the urge to glare at him and I stare at my soda can instead. He is in my bubble, my personal space. I start to get nervous. What if the vomit left a smell on me? I perspire at the thought.
“I paid for this so I’m drinking it,” I say, trying to brush his advice off. I can feel his gaze, so I continue to focus my attention on the blue can. I try to pretend that the can’s design is complex.
He frowns at me and leans forward. “Soda is really bad for you. It’s got shit ingredients. I’ll buy you two sparkling waters right now if you throw that crap in the sink.”
Welp, I think to myself, can’t pass up two drinks for the price of one. I set the drink down and sigh. I have no idea why I am inclined to take his advice, but he seems to care. His sudden concern puzzles me. And I’m intrigued.
Without another word, he takes the can and pours out the rest of its contents. A few moments later, he hands me two unflavored sparkling waters and a receipt.
“Hope it helps your stomach,” he says with a small smile. “I have to go back to work now.”
I thank him, but I stare as he leaves. I don’t know how to feel.