It’s a busy hour before the line finally slows down again and several guys from the store stroll to the booth to pick up pay checks. Will McKenzie pulls up to my window with a huge grin for me, his slightly crooked teeth and freckles giving him an innocent but attractive look.
“Hello, gorgeous,” he says with a tiny come-hither smirk, leaning his big body against the counter in his dark blue smock from the grocery department, his brown eyes sincere and flirty.
“Hello yourself,” I reply, unable to hold my mouth back from moving into a smile. Will is so damn nice, why oh why can’t I like him? Why must I always be interested in guys who are so terribly out of my league? It’s the curse of my life, always wanting to attract the hot assholes and not the cute nice guys.
“I waited all night so you could give me my paycheck, Vicky,” he says, his face earnest, his eyes kind yet hinting at more than just friends.
“Oh really,” I reply, arching an eyebrow. I like to flirt with Will. He’s safe, the kind of guy who is really nice even though he sometimes jokes about sex or dirty things. I grab the box of paychecks and search for his until finally I pull it out and hand it to him through the window.
“Thanks, babe,” he says with a wink, immediately ripping off the paper sides to see what he’s made for the week. “Oh yeah, just enough to finish the repairs on my motorcycle,” he says, signing his name to the back with a flourish and pushing the check back at me so that I can cash it.
“You know, Vicky, the guys out back are starting a ‘hottest girls in the store’ list and I’m voting for you as number one,“ he says, leaning back, large hands outstretched on the counter, his eyes twinkling.
“What?!” I reply, a little shocked, yet slightly pleased at this revelation. “They have a hottest girls list? You’re shitting me,” I say with a grin that I can’t seem to hide, just a little more than flattered that Will wants me to be number one. Michelle walks up behind me at the window and grins at Will.
“Oh yeah, Split Pea, who else is gonna be on the list?” she asks, recalling a nickname we had given Will when we had first met because he was always seen stocking the cans in the veggie aisle.
“Well, booth beeotch,” he says, poking fun at Michelle, “You’re not gonna be on the list if I have anything to do with it, but I do know that Oliver from Produce has a mega huge thing for you,” he says with an evil smile because Oliver is an older guy who always gets made fun of for his perfectionism and grouchy ways.
“Will!” says Michelle, waving her clenched fist at him through the window, “You are just fricken hilarious.”
Will grins as I come back with his money to count it back to him. The twenties, tens and ones move smoothly through my hands as I count out loud, practice having made perfect since I’ve been working in the booth for two years now, plus it doesn’t hurt that I’m not nervous around Will like I am with hotties like Jared.
“Wow, you do it so much better than Michelle,” he says, his eyes skittering over to Michelle’s side of the booth to see if she’s noticed that he’s giving her shit. Michelle rolls her eyes.
“Get outta here, Creamed Corn, before I call the manager on your lazy ass,” she says as Will ambles away from us with a backward wave for me.
“So,” says Michelle, immediately turning toward me, “you gonna give him a chance?” I pause for a moment, imaging my kiss with Will over the summer. It had felt brotherly, so not-sexy.
“Honestly, Michelle, I can’t. Will is a great guy, but I don’t feel the spark for him. You remember what happened over the summer, I just didn’t feel anything.” Michelle leans back on her side for a moment, facing me, her arms crossed over her chest, her expression serious.
“What about that Brad guy you were crushing on, what ever happened to him?”
“Oh God, don’t get me started. He’s an asshole. I think he honestly didn’t want anything to do with me anymore because I wouldn’t immediately have sex with him. I’m kinda over it, although I do feel bad. I feel like he never really liked me at all, he just wanted a piece of ass.”
Michelle laughs, “Guys suck, Vic, best to learn that now!” she says turning back to her window as the manager rounds the corner of an aisle. We look busy for a few minutes and then she turns to me again.
“You going to Anne’s party tomorrow night? Supposed to be a rager. I hope I feel better ‘cause I want to go.”
“Yeah actually I do want to go,” I reply with a naughty grin imagining Anne’s alcohol stash, the guys that will be there, the dancing. I need to get drunk ASAP. I need that escape. Michelle just grins back at me, a knowing look passing between us as we both think about the last time we got drunk together and how wild we were. A manager heads up the stairs next to the booth to the second floor office so we’re quiet and get back to work. I’m relieved that for a few moments I was able to distract myself from my ever present lurking anxiety.
Several hectic hours have already flown by when Michelle informs me that she’s feeling much worse. After a trip to the bathroom she tells me she’d like to leave after she covers my lunch break. I reluctantly agree because there is nothing else I can do. I really don’t want to be left alone with my crazy ass mind in this tiny booth, but I can’t force Michelle to stay if she isn’t feeling well. I know that if the tables were turned and I wasn’t feeling well, Michelle would gladly let me leave early even if it meant more work for her. And I know that I would be very appreciative.
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The break room out back above the loading dock is empty when I arrive swinging my recently purchased frozen pasta dinner in its thin white plastic bag. I pull back the film cover and pop it into the filthy microwave with a frown and plop down onto one of the cracked red plastic chairs. Oh fuck. Now I’m focusing on the overpowering feeling of panic about being alone for the rest of the night in the booth. My heart starts thudding and a flush of heat washes over me at the thought. It’s times like these that I wish I wasn’t so insane. I wish I knew what was wrong with me and I desperately wish that someone else was on lunch now to try and take my mind off my impending imprisonment and God forsaken anxiety. I’m not in the mood to feel trapped tonight.
I try to get my mind off my terror by watching the numbers count down on the microwave: 1:12, 1:11, 1:10, but my fingers start fidgeting in my lap, my heart racing, breathe coming in gasps. Shit. When I’m faced with a truly distressing situation my weak attempts to trick myself or focus on other things are usually lessons in futility and tonight isn’t any different. Don’t. Don’t panic now, don’t freak out, don’t feel sick, it will only make things worse. Why must I make myself miserable? Why must I be the craziest bitch in the world? I literally hate my life.
I press my hands against my sore belly, trying to stop it from flip flopping around inside me. If only I didn’t make myself miserable by getting nervous and feeling sick, it’s like I do this to myself. It’s ridiculous. I’m ridiculous. Crazy, crazy, crazy.
I take several deep breaths until the microwave beeps and I jump up to pull my steaming lunch from the red splattered interior. Back at the table, I pick at my food, moving the pasta around in the plastic tray. I don’t really feel like eating even though I’m pretty hungry, I worry that it will only make my stomach distress worse. But at least I bought a few granola bars that I can sneak in the booth when there is a lull in the line of customers.
I think back over all the things I’m supposed to accomplish this weekend. There’s tons of laundry to do, my car desperately needs an oil change and an interior cleaning if there’s time, my homework for the next week is outrageous with a take-home exam, a 10 page paper and tons of reading. There is so much to think about, so much to accomplish and I’m tired and drained. I try to turn my thoughts to other things, recalling what Will had said about the “hottest girl in the store” list. It feels good to think that guys in the store think I’m attractive. At least someone does, I think, imagining all my failed attempts at relationships lately.
Then my thoughts turn to Jared full-force, the hottest guy I’ve seen in a long while. I spend a little time fantasizing about what it would be like to kiss him, touch his body, be near him. It’s almost incomprehensible that I would ever have the chance to do so and I know if I did I’d be painfully nervous and self-conscious. He's the kind of guy who makes me tongue tied, he makes me feel so damn inadequate, but he is so perfect, so utterly my type. I’ve begun to notice that I have a type and it isn’t blonde, blue-eyed Brad. I’m beginning to realize that my huge crush on him and belief that we should be together is completely wrong. Right now, my type is tall, dark, handsome, with a gorgeous grin and a killer body. Yeah, who doesn’t want that type?
Before I know it, the minute hand of the break room clock has ticked by 25 minutes and soon it will be time to clock back in and resume my duties in the booth. I take a quick trip to the bathroom, hoping I won’t have to ask to go again before the night is out, and then head back up front, threading through customers and the long, multicolored aisles of food stuffed shelves, desperately trying to calm my racing thoughts. Every step brings me closer to doom. I’m obsessed with the thought of being stuck inside that box for the rest of the night.
As the door closes on Michelle’s back, I think, fuck that sounds like the slamming of a jail cell and I feel the panic grip me, tight. It feels unreal, as if the world is not tangible, but ghostly, blurry and slightly out of focus. Oh God no. I grip the edge of the counter to hold myself upright. My heartbeat is everywhere at once, slamming through my veins, hot and jittery. I blink, trying to bring reality back into focus, trying to banish the other-worldly feeling that is darkening my vision. I want to scream out at Michelle, “Don’t leave me!” but I know I can’t, I know it would seem crazy if I were to do something like that, so I just stand there, quivering like a leaf in a stiff breeze, my body on fire, the heat flowing, rushing over me in waves. Faaacck, this sucks.
A customer approaches and I groan inside, my self-defeating mantra zipping through my mind on overdrive…I. Am. Crazy. Repeat. I. Am. Crazy. Repeat. I wrap one arm around my middle and lean into the counter, hard, to steady myself and stop the churning razorblades in my gut. I try to smile. God, I hope no one can tell what’s going on inside my freakish head. I barely hear the request made of me, something about a return and I turn to the register, my hands automatically moving over the keys, until the drawer pops out and I’m able to count out the change that is necessary.
Thank God I can work on autopilot, although it’s extremely difficult because the trapped feeling is threatening to knock me on the ground and step on my throat so I can’t breathe. Let it be over, I pray, trying to focus on the work by pulling out a huge stack of checks to add on the adding machine. But my fingers just stumble over the keys, making mistakes left and right and I sigh. I’m useless right now. I need to get swallowed up in busywork so I can get some blessed relief for my strained mind and body but of course my fingers won’t seem to work.
Customers keep coming up to the booth and once in a while I’m capable of forgetting, of getting so caught up in rushing around printing lottery tickets, paying out money for scratch tickets, processing returns that I forget to worry. It never lasts long, my sick mind is quick to remind me that I am trapped and probably legally insane.
All of a sudden after a customer leaves my line with his lottery tickets and stamps, my stomach seizes up, gripped so tight that I know I need to use the restroom. I’m churning and struggling inside, blistering hot, out of control, my thoughts thundering. You are trapped, Victoria. You can’t leave. You will be sick all over the floor and embarrass yourself. You will scream, you might throw a tantrum right here. You might cry. You might make a spectacle. You might pass out, or pee your pants, or vomit, or shit, or fall down and not be able to get back up. You might talk nonsense, you might die. You might reveal the fact that you are totally insane to everyone in the store and you will never be able to show your face again. Try to fight it, but you know it will win, you know your own crazy will keep you under its boot, suffering, terrified, sick.
Now, I’m dizzy, leaning against the counter, dazed. It’s almost as if I’m floating outside my own body. But the sensations in my stomach are grounding me, letting me know that I am here, physically trapped inside this booth with no easy way of escape. I break out in a cold sweat, heart hammering, body trembling and nauseous. It feels like a heart attack. It is my own personal hell.
I can’t believe I have to call someone just so I can dash out of here to the restroom. I hate that something private like that has to be explained to a relative stranger. I have to pick up the in-store phone and make a page, asking the manager to call me back, then wait until he finally does and then ask him to come to the booth. Even then he might not be able to come right away and I really feel like I need him to come now. But I hate to use my one call of the night right now, just 45 minutes after Michelle left.
I try to stand the sensations, try to fight off the feelings, but it’s bad, flu-like and miserable. I want to lie down and curl up into a little ball of sobbing, terrified, sick, dying girl. But I can’t. I’ve got to stand it. I absolutely cannot allow myself to be embarrassed completely in front of everyone in the store by freaking out because I’m trapped. I can’t let anyone know. I must not.
I try desperately to count the cashier till in front of me, my hands shaking, knocking nickels and dimes around, finally dropping the debit slips in a snowfall of paperwork all over the floor. Emotions of futility and despair roll up from my feet to my head, heavy with dread and I feel like I’m far away, wrapped in smothering hot, damp cotton, tears pricking at the back of my eyes. I’m not strong enough for this. I want to go home, to feel safe from these feelings. There is no joking now, this is serious shit and I can’t escape it. Not ever.
My eyes are almost overflowing and I blink furiously trying to stop it. I’m a quivering mess and my stomach rumbles again, knives piercing me in the side, breath caught in the back of my throat. I swear there is a membrane covering my windpipe and I can’t drag in one deep breath of air. I’m smothering, oh God, my chest feels tight and I try to drag in a breath and I’m on fire, burning with embarrassment, belly piercing me again and again, heart thudding, slamming, about to explode.
I try to hold back the overflow of moisture that is threatening to creep down my cheeks and make it obvious to others that something is wrong. I don’t want anyone to know I’m feeling this way and I know that if I pick up the phone now and make that page it will be my only escape of the night. I have one shot and I’d better not waste it. After my one chance, another will seem excessive and annoying to the manager.
I pick up the phone, indecision eating away at me like stomach acid, should I call or not? I evaluate how I’m feeling. Trapped, nauseous, sick, ill, twisted, frantic, all wrong, definitely over the top crazy. I push the call button, about to speak into the phone when my stomach releases, the pain easing away for a moment. I sink down, half sitting on the low counter next to the lottery machine, cradling my mid-section, rocking back and forth, my arms wrapped tightly, the tears finally seeping over. I shudder with relief, with fear, with uncertainty. Thank God there are no customers around right now.
After a few minutes I unwrap a bit and hang up the phone, pulling a tissue from the nearby box to dab at my eyes. Last just a little longer, I beg myself, dragging deep breaths of air into my straining lungs. This is hell.
#######################
Somehow I made it through tonight. I’m home now, but it was bad and I ended up calling the manager to take over for a few minutes. Somehow I made it through the rest of night without calling again. But it was an entire evening on the edge of mental breakdown disaster. Sometimes for a few weeks I’m able to forget what the full-on mind/body fuck that is my personal hell feels like. Sometimes I can live for a little while with just a few passing twinges and nothing excessive. But when I do feel that excessive over-the-top terror-sickness, it attacks my body and mind and it ma
kes me start to dwell on it all over again. It’s like some horrible drug has been released into my bloodstream, crippling me. I don’t want to dwell on it. I don’t feel like spending the next several weeks close to losing it. It makes me feel like drinking constantly or doing something that takes this fucking shit out of my mind. Sometimes I really get freakin angry about this. I hate it so much.
March 2, 1995, Third Grade
I’ve launched head first into crazy
The steamy Florida air is distinctly cool inside the colorfully decorated Chinese restaurant and I’m crammed in on one side of the crowded table, surrounded by my parents, brother, cousins, aunts, and uncles. The buzz around the table is of the impending space shuttle lift off just 35 miles from where we are now eating. My Aunt Karen wishes we could go see it, even from a distance and my Uncle Henry thinks we should drive there and see if we can find a good spot. My parents want to go too, telling stories about seeing the lift off on TV and how they had always wished they could see it in person.
I’m wishing we could just go back to the hotel room because my eyes are burning, I’m tired, entirely too full of Chinese food and soda and the sunburn that I didn’t realize I had on my shoulders is beginning to ache. My cousins on the other hand, are talking about what we’ll do tomorrow when we visit the Kennedy Space Center. As we’re finishing our meals, an older man with a fishing hat and Bermuda shorts walks up to the table.
“Heard ya’ll talking about the space lift off and wondered if you might like to have free tickets to get in across the lagoon from the launch site. Real first class seats to the grand show,” he says with a flourish. The table falls into silence and my aunts and uncles look amazed. I’m thinking, now we’re gonna have to go somewhere else tonight, although seeing the shuttle lift off could be pretty interesting.
Angst Page 4
