i had a bad day.
I don't think I could've counted how many people bothered me today. So, to all the people out there who witnessed me slowly losing my cool by way of causing it to happen, I offer this:
Yes, I work retail. No, you're not better than me, Ms. Ladyonthephone. I'm not sorry I could not read your mind as to exactly how you wanted your book to enter the red plastic bag that I didn't even have to give you. I haven't read, nor have I even heard about every book in existence, a fact that does not determine my level of intelligence.
I had to stop and buy gas ($2.85 for regular, by the way, not that I'm complaining--I'm made of money, after all) on my way home. In the process of pumping gas, two different people asked me for money.
The first was this girl, probably about twelve years old, who weakly went through an entire description of what organization she was with and what great things it was doing for kids like her (whatever type of kid she may be, I really don't know) and how they're going to Yosemite and did I want to buy some of the items she had to sell? She had a couple black boxes strapped to a little miniature dolly (like Deb in Napoleon Dynamite, only not as colorful). But I honestly had no cash. I was at the "pay with your card" thing. She didn't seem to mind. And also didn't seem surprised.
As I was starting to pump my gas, I saw this woman off toward the edge of the parking lot, maybe on the sidewalk, in jeans and a white blouse with a black sweater over it. I remember thinking something vague and typical about being overweight and, in general, not that great of a dresser. But really I was preoccupied because the nozzle was sort of slimy.
And then the woman walked over to me. And her face looked hard. Like a woman in a Dorothea Lange photo. Her lips were chapped. She wasn't thin; she was skinny. The black sweater I'd vaguely thought was pretty, is pilled and ragged. She asked if I could help her out by just giving her some change. I told her I didn't think I had much, but that I'd check in my car after I was done filling up.
I couldn't do it while the gas was pumping, because every gas station in LA has these ridiculous springy things over the nozzles, which I suppose are somehow intended to be better for the environment, but actually cause the hose to shoot out of the car. I haven't gotten gas without getting some on the ground in over a year. (And we wonder why the supply is low. Every little bit helps.)
So the tank is full, I get in my car and scrounge around for change. I can see her floating around, hoping I haven't forgotten and not wanting to appear desperate. I tell her I don't have much and it's the truth. She says she'll take anything. I think I found, maybe, 38 cents. And I drop it into her hand.
And my fingers, just for a second, touch her palm. There is no moisture.
In the same gas station, I think every other car would cost more than mine and every single person was dressed better than I was. And I find myself wondering if it was just because I was at the first pump that she asked me, or if there's some sort of societal understanding that rich people are sort of scary. Not necessarily that someone else wouldn't have given her 38 cents, or hopefully more, but that maybe she was just as intimidated by the people there as I was. I reminded myself that when I first looked at her I thought something along the lines of I look like crap. I don't belong.
I wonder if she could tell.
Yes, I work retail. No, you're not better than me, Ms. Ladyonthephone. I'm not sorry I could not read your mind as to exactly how you wanted your book to enter the red plastic bag that I didn't even have to give you. I haven't read, nor have I even heard about every book in existence, a fact that does not determine my level of intelligence.
I had to stop and buy gas ($2.85 for regular, by the way, not that I'm complaining--I'm made of money, after all) on my way home. In the process of pumping gas, two different people asked me for money.
The first was this girl, probably about twelve years old, who weakly went through an entire description of what organization she was with and what great things it was doing for kids like her (whatever type of kid she may be, I really don't know) and how they're going to Yosemite and did I want to buy some of the items she had to sell? She had a couple black boxes strapped to a little miniature dolly (like Deb in Napoleon Dynamite, only not as colorful). But I honestly had no cash. I was at the "pay with your card" thing. She didn't seem to mind. And also didn't seem surprised.
As I was starting to pump my gas, I saw this woman off toward the edge of the parking lot, maybe on the sidewalk, in jeans and a white blouse with a black sweater over it. I remember thinking something vague and typical about being overweight and, in general, not that great of a dresser. But really I was preoccupied because the nozzle was sort of slimy.
And then the woman walked over to me. And her face looked hard. Like a woman in a Dorothea Lange photo. Her lips were chapped. She wasn't thin; she was skinny. The black sweater I'd vaguely thought was pretty, is pilled and ragged. She asked if I could help her out by just giving her some change. I told her I didn't think I had much, but that I'd check in my car after I was done filling up.
I couldn't do it while the gas was pumping, because every gas station in LA has these ridiculous springy things over the nozzles, which I suppose are somehow intended to be better for the environment, but actually cause the hose to shoot out of the car. I haven't gotten gas without getting some on the ground in over a year. (And we wonder why the supply is low. Every little bit helps.)
So the tank is full, I get in my car and scrounge around for change. I can see her floating around, hoping I haven't forgotten and not wanting to appear desperate. I tell her I don't have much and it's the truth. She says she'll take anything. I think I found, maybe, 38 cents. And I drop it into her hand.
And my fingers, just for a second, touch her palm. There is no moisture.
In the same gas station, I think every other car would cost more than mine and every single person was dressed better than I was. And I find myself wondering if it was just because I was at the first pump that she asked me, or if there's some sort of societal understanding that rich people are sort of scary. Not necessarily that someone else wouldn't have given her 38 cents, or hopefully more, but that maybe she was just as intimidated by the people there as I was. I reminded myself that when I first looked at her I thought something along the lines of I look like crap. I don't belong.
I wonder if she could tell.
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