Short story for Taylor, since she isn't getting Trap tonight.
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“Fffffuuuuuck.” Alex grumbled as he slammed a hand over his alarm clock. The cacophonous noise stopped, but his head was still ringing.
He stared at the ceiling and counted to ten, savoring his last few moments in his warm cocoon of quilts and blankets. At ten he cursed, groaned, and rolled out of bed to fall with a hard thunk on the floor.
Alex took a moment to remind himself that he needed this job, he couldn’t blow it off. He couldn’t go back to his old employment. Sure, some of his previous clients would still be willing to take him back, but the possible consequences weren’t worth it. Mortimer’s grinning face flashed through his mind, and Alex found the will somewhere in his body to pull himself up and take a shower.
“On your resume it says that for your last job you were self-employed, and the dates listed span five years, but you didn’t list an occupation. Is that a new way of saying ‘unemployed’?”
“Oh, no. Sorry, I was an escort. I must have missed a blank when I was filling in the paperwork.”
“Escort? Could you be more specific?”
“Prostitute.”
If she had been shocked she hadn’t shown it, and the rest of the interview had gone smoothly. The next day Alex had a call back telling him he got the job. It wasn’t much, minimum wage was a bitch, but it was something, and it would pay the bills. Alex was glad for once that he lived in a tiny craptastic studio apartment. Minimum wage wouldn’t have been able to support him with anything else.
So now he worked at a record store. Or, well, CD and iTunes-gift-card store. No one sold records any more. Not that he could blame them, the playback quality and storage capacity was far superior on modern technology, but there was something nostalgic about an old vinyl.
After getting ready Alex still had a few minutes to spare before he had to start his walk down to the bus stop, and he stopped for a second to stare at himself in the mirror.
“I’m not indy enough.” He told himself with a groan, and proceeded to rap his forehead against the sink, “God. I look like a poser. An emo poser. And my indie cred is five years out of date. Fuck. Maybe I am a poser.”
He took a deep breath. No one was going to eat him alive for not being indy enough, of all things. The worst he would get would be a scowl from suitably indy customers who were wondering why the hell such a mainstream bitch was working at an indie record store. And if they scowled, Alex could always scowl back and curse their grandmother in Japanese.
There was a silver lining to every cloud.
Alex forced down a deep breath, and then another, and continued to remind himself to keep breathing. There was no reason to be this nervous about going to work as a cashier and merchandise stocker for minimum wage. Except, maybe, this was his first real, law-abiding, tax-paying job. Ever.
He did his best to shrug off the anxiety and grabbed his coat, heading out the door to report for duty.
...
beepbeepBEEPbeepbeepBEEPbeepbeepBEEP-
“Fffffuuuuuck.” Alex grumbled as he slammed a hand over his alarm clock. The cacophonous noise stopped, but his head was still ringing.
He stared at the ceiling and counted to ten, savoring his last few moments in his warm cocoon of quilts and blankets. At ten he cursed, groaned, and rolled out of bed to fall with a hard thunk on the floor.
Alex took a moment to remind himself that he needed this job, he couldn’t blow it off. He couldn’t go back to his old employment. Sure, some of his previous clients would still be willing to take him back, but the possible consequences weren’t worth it. Mortimer’s grinning face flashed through his mind, and Alex found the will somewhere in his body to pull himself up and take a shower.
“On your resume it says that for your last job you were self-employed, and the dates listed span five years, but you didn’t list an occupation. Is that a new way of saying ‘unemployed’?”
“Oh, no. Sorry, I was an escort. I must have missed a blank when I was filling in the paperwork.”
“Escort? Could you be more specific?”
“Prostitute.”
If she had been shocked she hadn’t shown it, and the rest of the interview had gone smoothly. The next day Alex had a call back telling him he got the job. It wasn’t much, minimum wage was a bitch, but it was something, and it would pay the bills. Alex was glad for once that he lived in a tiny craptastic studio apartment. Minimum wage wouldn’t have been able to support him with anything else.
So now he worked at a record store. Or, well, CD and iTunes-gift-card store. No one sold records any more. Not that he could blame them, the playback quality and storage capacity was far superior on modern technology, but there was something nostalgic about an old vinyl.
After getting ready Alex still had a few minutes to spare before he had to start his walk down to the bus stop, and he stopped for a second to stare at himself in the mirror.
“I’m not indy enough.” He told himself with a groan, and proceeded to rap his forehead against the sink, “God. I look like a poser. An emo poser. And my indie cred is five years out of date. Fuck. Maybe I am a poser.”
He took a deep breath. No one was going to eat him alive for not being indy enough, of all things. The worst he would get would be a scowl from suitably indy customers who were wondering why the hell such a mainstream bitch was working at an indie record store. And if they scowled, Alex could always scowl back and curse their grandmother in Japanese.
There was a silver lining to every cloud.
Alex forced down a deep breath, and then another, and continued to remind himself to keep breathing. There was no reason to be this nervous about going to work as a cashier and merchandise stocker for minimum wage. Except, maybe, this was his first real, law-abiding, tax-paying job. Ever.
He did his best to shrug off the anxiety and grabbed his coat, heading out the door to report for duty.
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