Chapter 17: LET MARLBORO SPONSOR F1 AGAIN
The fluorescent lights of QuickMart buzz overhead like the thoughts in my brain, constant, irritating, impossible to ignore. My first day of actual employment, and I'm already exhausted before I've even clocked in. Between dodging Mom in the hallways and pretending everything's normal with Sabrina, college is turning into an Olympic sport of avoidance.
After a grueling day of classes, I wolfed down a sad cafeteria sandwich and headed straight to QuickMart. The job might pay minimum wage, but at least it gets me out of the house and away from Mom's increasingly aggressive advances.
I push through the automatic doors, the electronic chime announcing my arrival. The smell hits me immediately, that distinct convenience store cocktail of coffee, processed food, and industrial cleaner that somehow manages to be both nostalgic and depressing.
"Gabe! Right on time!" Debbie calls from behind the counter, her face lighting up when she spots me. She's wearing the standard QuickMart polo, her brown hair pulled back in the same messy bun from yesterday, though today there's a pencil stuck through it at a precarious angle.
"Hey, Debbie," I respond, trying to inject some enthusiasm into my voice despite feeling like I've been hit by a truck. "I'm ready to learn how to be a QuickMart professional."
She laughs, the sound genuine enough to momentarily lift my mood. "Professional is a stretch, but I'll teach you everything I know." She beckons me behind the counter, pointing to a door marked 'Employees Only.' "There's a locker in the back where you can put your stuff. Your uniform's in there, too."
I follow her directions, finding a small, dingy break room with a row of dented metal lockers along one wall. Mine has a piece of masking tape with "GABE" written in Sharpie stuck to the front. Inside is a red polo shirt with the QuickMart logo emblazoned on the chest, still in its plastic packaging.
I change quickly, the polyester fabric clinging uncomfortably to my skin. When I emerge, Debbie's waiting with a clipboard and a patient smile.
"Look at you! Official QuickMart material," she says, her eyes lingering on my shoulders a beat too long before she clears her throat. "Let's start with the register, shall we?"
The next hour passes in a blur of training, how to ring up items, process returns, check IDs for alcohol and cigarettes, and restock the shelves. Debbie is surprisingly thorough, her clumsiness from yesterday apparently limited to walking, as her hands move with practiced efficiency over the register keys.
"Sorry if I'm going too fast," Debbie says, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "My ex-husband always said I talk too much when I'm nervous."