Wednesday, September 27, 2006

Unpleasant surprises.

There is a private and singular horror to working at a store that maintains an arcade. A softly gibbering unease I doubt would be known anywhere else. It suffuses the staff, a shared understanding that in its own way contributes to the crucible that turns those who work here into a cohesive team.

For there is nothing that makes the skin crawl and sends waves of revulsion through one’s limbs more than having a customer hand you a moist, sticky bill to break change. Months can pass, thousands of patrons given change without such an unwholesome surprise, but when it happens it lingers in the subconscious.

Everyone knows that money is filthy. It passes from grubby mitt to grubbier mitt from the day it is released into circulation until reduced to mulch. However, it is something else again when it comes into your hand clammy with some unknown residue. Or at least you pray it remains unknown. In the space of a nanosecond, the insidious feeling of "unclean" creeps over the skin like a tainted film.

It is often all I can do to finish handing back the requested bills before gingerly carrying the vile denomination to the office and soaking the damned thing with Lysol and proceeding to wash my hands like I’m intending on performing thoracic surgery.

Repeat offenders have been required to just lay the cash down before unleashing “fresh-scent” disinfectant hell as if it was napalm.

My disdain for those gooey ass-hats inflicting such indignities upon the smooth passage of my shift knows no bounds. If there was any justice in the world, I would be able to correct such atrocious behavior with the fire-hose of icy water it so roundly deserves.

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