"Would you like to Supersize that?" she said for what seemed to be the millionth time that day.
"Sure, Wiener Dog," her customer taunted. He was about seventeen and surrounded by a group of slack-jawed, football player-type friends.
"Supersize that," she yelled back to Stuart, the dry-skinned kid working at the deep-fryer. She pressed a button on the cash register. "That'll be thirteen dollars and seventy-nine cents."
The boy handed over a wad of bills and change, and she busied herself with sorting it into the tray. "How much you charge, a nickel?" she heard him ask. They laughed while she ignored them. She was used to this kind of thing- not so much at work, but other places.
She silently handed back his change, then handed his order to him when it came on the tray.
"What? No smile? No 'have a nice day'? I wouldn't want to have to tell the manager of this fine establishment that I'm disappointed in customer service."
She didn't really smile, just moved her lips to show her teeth. "Have a great fucking day," she hissed. The boys laughed loudly, then walked away to a distant table.
"They giving you a hard time?" Stuart asked. She waved her hand in dismissal. "Hey, break!" he added.
"Can you do the counter?" she asked Trina, a pretty blond. Trina nodded enthusiastically. Trina did everything enthusiastically.
She and Stuart went through the kitchen to the employee exit of the Toronto McDonald's; he liked fresh air, and she just needed to get the fuck out of there sometimes.
The ID in her purse proclaimed her as Josephine Stevenson, 18, owner of an insured rustbucket Civic compact. She also carried her community college card; once a week, she had a creative writing class. There were no pictures of friends or family in her wallet- just a picture of her three year-old Golden Retriever Nicky, and a picture of Nick Carter, who the dog was named after. Even she thought it was a little bit pathetic.
"This job blows," Stuart said. He was an awkward, intelligent, tall, thin seventeen year-old whose ears stuck out perpendicular to his head. She'd always suspected him of having a crush on her, and under different circumstances, she knew she it would have been mutual.
She shrugged. "It pays the rent, anyway."
"You got your own place?"
"Yeah. I moved out a couple years ago. It's just an apartment. Got some money saved, too- I'm doing alright."
"Finished school?"
"Graduated with honours this year."
"I wish I was done. Only one more year!" He was ahead a grade.
"OAC's brutal, man, watch out." She watched a teenage couple walking down the sidewalk holding hands and laughing, then frowned and looked away.
They stood there silently for the rest of their fifteen-minute break.
The drive home didn't bother her, even though she got stuck in a traffic jam downtown. She just popped a Backstreet Boys tape in the stereo system (the only truly reliable feature of her car) and sang along loudly, windows down, until the guy in the pickup truck next to her became sufficiently annoyed to roll his up.
She took the stairs up to her one-bedroom apartment instead of the elevator, fiddled with the key until the door opened, and was greeted enthusiastically by seventy pounds of slobbering dog.
"Nicky, down," she said firmly. "Down, boy."
Nicky sat, tail swishing from side to side frantically.
She knelt down and hugged him, and he responded by licking her ear. "Aww, kisses for the mommy. I love you too. Stop drooling in my ear. You wanna' go for a walk?"
He barked.
She took off her shoes and stood up. "We will later. Mommy's feet hurt right now."
She refilled his water dish and, while he drank from it, she went into her bedroom and collasped onto the bed.
The apartment was pretty bare. The living room housed a couch, a TV, VCR, two lamps, a coffee table and a big stereo system. There was nothing on the white walls. The kitchen had a refrigerator, stove, microwave, toaster, telephone, and two chairs, although the second chair was just for the look and the phone rarely rang. The fridge was decorated with comic strips cut out of the newspaper held there with plain black magnets. The only things on the counter were a knife holder, the toaster and microwave, and a steel wool pad behind the sink.
Her bedroom was the only decorated part of the apartment. Backstreet Boys posters were everywhere, wall to wall and beginning to creep onto the ceiling. An acoustic guitar in its case leaned against the wall. There was a desk with South Park dolls and a computer, a wooden dresser, a wooden chest, a bookcase topped by a globe, and a utility cart beside the bed that held multitudes of disorganized magazines and binders on its shelves, a camera, several diaries, and looseleaf paper. On the floor in front of it was an AM/FM radio with two tape decks and a CD player. Assorted junk lay around the perimeter of the room (she cleaned it every Sunday; it was Friday).
Nicky followed her into the bedroom, jumped on the bed and laid down on top of her chest.
She wiggled out from under him towards the wall and looked up at a poster of Nick Carter, who was equally handsome upside-down. "You know what, Nicky," she said, addressing both him and the dog, "I think I'll go clubbing tonight. I mean, the only time I ever see anyone else is at work, and maybe at the convenience store, and my writing class Mondays." She turned to the dog. "No offense, sweetie, but you're no substitute for a healthy social life."
She remembered her first and only date, in highschool. He'd tried to feel her up. She hadn't let him, and there had never been a second date by silent mutual agreement.
"Don't worry. I'll feed me, then I'll feed you, and then we'll go walkies before I leave, okay?"
He licked her.
"Oh, what a nice boy."
A heavy bass assaulted her ears when she entered the nightclub. She felt very strange going there alone. Everywhere there were couples or groups of friends talking and dancing. She felt both invisible and conspicuous.
She started to dance. She knew she could dance, and she knew she looked pretty good too. She was wearing jeans embroidered with dragons and a ribbed white tank top with a blue star on it. Her long, chestnut hair was curled into corkscrews and she was wearing body glitter around her eyes.
After about an hour, a good-looking, slightly older guy in a gold shirt approached her and asked if he could buy her a beer.
"I don't drink," she yelled over the music, "but I'd like a Sprite."
He grinned, displaying straight white teeth, and they walked to the bar together.
They engaged in light conversation. He told her he was a business major at the University of Toronto, and she told him about her academic achievements in highschool.
He looked impressed. "So, what university did you choose?" "None. I can't afford it, and I couldn't get any scholarships or grants. And a student loan- it would take forever to pay back, and when a degree doesn't even guarantee you a job..."
"What would you major in, if you could go?"
"Music. Arts. Literature."
He laughed. "You'd waste a university education learning that?"
"It's what I love."
"Instead of engineering or business or computers or something practical like that you'd take music? The last thing the world needs is another Bachelor of Arts flipping burgers."
"I already flip burgers."
There was an awkward pause.
He shifted uncomfortably. "So, how about those Jays?"
"'How about' them? Are you insane? They're awful!"
The conversation continued to switch subjects from politics to music to television to books.
"Are you single?"
"Yeah."
He checked his watch, pretending to be casual. "Well, it's getting late. Do you want to come over to my place or something?" He flashed a dazzling plastic grin. She imagined he had a high success rate with that question.
"No, thanks."
"What? Why?"
"I hardly even know you. I don't even know your name."
"Sean."
"Very nice, but no."
He stood up. "It's not like you get asked often."
"Is that what this is? Your good and charitable deed for the day?"
"This is a nightclub. People come here to fuck someone somewhere else later. I figured you were the same."
"You know what? Maybe I'm not."
"The way you were leading me on-"
"I was just talking to you. Maybe I just came here to dance and talk to someone."
He snorted in disgust and walked away.
"Can I have another Sprite?" she asked the bartender.
"ID, please."
"It's a Sprite. Last time I checked, that wasn't an alcoholic beverage."
"Sorry, we're busy!"
She finished the drink and danced alone for another hour before deciding to go home, turning off the music in her car because she had a headache.
Nicky greeted her at the door. She took him down the stairs and outside to do his business, then they went back inside and she changed into her summer nightgown. It had been stupid to go to the nightclub looking for a friend. She couldn't really have one, anyway- she'd have to move again soon, where she wasn't sure; probably across the border to Detroit or Buffalo.
She sat down on her bed and leaned against a poster of Nick, laying her head on his paper shoulder. She wished he was there with her. She hadn't been held, kissed or loved in so long. Of course, Nick would never know her, never mind love her.
She laid down on the bed and stared at his picture. He and Nick look so much alike around the eyes, she thought. She closed her eyes and remembered how he'd said he loved her.
Her eyes felt hot with tears. She forced them back and gave herself up to a night of dreams about Nick that she would hate waking from.
Good morning, don't cop out
You crawled from the cancer to land on your feet
Are you crazy to want this even for awhile?
We're making this shit up
The reasons for being are easy to pay
You can't remember the others, they just kind of went away
So you're driving, it's rush hour
The cars on the freeway are moving like slugs
When you drift off to wake up do you always hit the brakes?
We're done lying for a living
The strange days have come and you're gone, you're gone
Either dead or dying, either dead or trying to go
It's evening, you're tired
You sleepwalk, a robot out to the street
Are you crazy to want this even for a while?
You're driving, it's rush hour
The cars on the freeway are moving backwards
Into a wall of fire
We're done lying for a living
The strange days have come and you're gone, you're gone
Either dead or dying, either dead or trying to go
Good morning, don't cop out
(-Matthew Good Band, "Strange Days")
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