Date: Tue, 03 Jul 2001 13:10:29 +0800
From: Corey Castor <snatched@alloymail.com>
Subject: Bleak Future (Part 1) - High School

DISCLAMER: There is none. It's your choice to be here whether you're 14 or
94. If you're already here, I can't tell you what to do can I? Just don't
break whatever law it is that you're breaking by being here and then
blaming it on someone else.

BLEAK FUTURE
Part 1

It's ten o'clock. I'm at work. I work at a small video store. I'm standing
at the counter staring at the television on top of the pole about ten feet
from me. It's a metal pole about three feet thick and reaches to the
ceiling. Around it, at the very top, are three television sets that
surround it like bees around a honeycomb. I'm watching "The Wedding Singer"
for the hundredth time. This has got to be one of the most boring jobs in
the world, I think. Mondays are always slow, but this is the slowest it's
ever been. I hope for someone interesting to come in. I hope someone picks
a fight outside so that I can break it up. I even hope that we get robbed
to relieve me of this boredom.

After a few minutes, I hear the door of the manager's office creak. I snap
out of my reverie and see my supervisor walking towards me.  She's no
taller than 5'2" with short brown hair that used to fall to her waist, but
she cut it a few months ago to her ears. Her face is small and round, makes
her look thirteen years old. She's eighteen. She's petite, I guess. She
always jokes that she's an eighteen year old trapped in the body of a
thirteen year old.

"Jesus! Are we watching this again? No wonder you're so bored," she says.

"I don't remember complaining," I answer, slouching back on the counter.

"I've been working with you for a year. I think I know when you're bored."

"Good for you," I manage to say.

"Tristan, put something else on," she almost yells. "I'm so sick of Adam
Sandler. Or just turn the TV off and put the radio on or something. I don't
think Dan's gonna come in at ten just to check if we have the TV on or
not." Dan's the owner of the store.

"Fine," I say. It's always better to agree with her. She likes to argue so
she can make it go on forever. I never really have the energy or the will
to keep up.

So I go around the store and turn off the sets on each pole. There are
about ten. Then I stop at the entertainment center at the back wall, turn
off the big screen and put in a CD. It's something with heavy guitars, very
noisy. I don't wait to get to the counter to begin to dance. Right in the
middle of the store, I start to throw my head back and forth, with my
fingers on my stomach, imitating the movements of a guitar player. James,
my supervisor, decides to join me, and in the middle of the store we dance
as if we are at a concert. My hair flows back and forth. I am the lead
singer and James is my back up.

For half an hour we dance and jump around the store. By the end of the
eighth song, I'm sweaty and full of energy I didn't know existed an hour
before. When the ninth song begins, we ready ourselves to begin our crazy
dance again, but we hear the faint ding of a bell, signaling that someone's
entered the store. Neither of us wanting to stop, we ignore whomever it is
who just came in and continue to dance, but when I turn around to face this
person, I find myself stopping abruptly. It was exactly what I'd hoped for
half an hour ago. It was someone who looked interesting.

"Can I help you find something?" I yell over the loud speakers.

"Uh, yeah. Sorta," he screams. Then he yells something so incoherent that
it makes me run to the entertainment center to shut off the CD player.
James runs in the other direction, taking the opportunity to turn the big
screen back on. Then deciding to stay up, she stands at the front to stare
at the kid who just came in. He's a bit taller than I am, but not
intimidating. I've seen him in the halls at school more than a few times.
His dark red hair reminds me of Gina Davis and Julia Roberts in "Notting
Hill". It's thick, but not big. Pretty, but not feminine. He's thin without
being lanky. His face, like that of James, reminds of a thirteen year old,
but his body is that of a boy in his late teens.

Now out of breath, I run back to where he stands and ask, "So, what'd you
say? I didn't hear you cause of the radio."

"I need an application. You guys hiring?"

I know that I should say no, but for some reason the word "yes" clings to
the tip of my tongue. So, I answer something close to both. "We're sort of
taking applications, so I'll give you one, but I can't guarantee anything."

"That's cool," he says and shrugs.

I walk to the front counter where James is standing, staring at the both of
us walking towards her. I can see the smirk on her face even though she
tries to hide it.

"James?" he asks, reading her nametag, and then chuckling. "Is that your
real name?"

"Not really," she answers, "but if you call me anything else, I'll have to
kick your ass." She smiles broadly, proud of her words. She likes to act
tough, but we both know that she couldn't throw a punch if her life
depended on it.

"I like that. I'm Paul." He smiles too, and for almost a full minute they
just stand there, smiling at each other, staring into each other's eyes as
if they've reached some sort of understanding, an agreement that doesn't
include me. I can only stand rigidly, and try to read their expressions,
but I've never been good at that so I hand him the application. "Thanks,"
he says.

"No problem. Just bring it tomorrow and hand it to the manager."

"Okay. Put in a good word for me," he says, and walks toward the door.

I had no answer to that. No yes, okay, or no. I just stare blankly at his
back as if he'd said something in gibberish. Then he turns around, staring
at me and not James, but not AT me, more like into me, through me, and he
smiles. Not the same understanding smile he'd given James, but a different
one. It seems like a smile that suggests something a bit more than
friendship, or acquaintance. I couldn't smile back because I had no idea
what his expression meant so I just stare at him with a perplexed look as
he walks out to his car.

"Wow, he's so hot," James says, not even waiting for him to start his car.
She runs both her hands through her hair making it more messy than it was.

"I think I know him from school," I say, still staring at the door where he
was standing a few seconds ago. "He's like a junior or senior or
something."

"I think I'd know if he was a senior, Tris." James is a senior.

"Maybe you missed just one. Doesn't matter anyway. He won't get hired.
Donna doesn't like to interview people."

"Wish I'd taken a picture or something," James whispers to herself.

"You can go rewind the security tape and watch it over and over and over
and over..."

"Shut up. Come on, let's start cleaning up. We close in an hour."


It's an hour later and James is locking the doors of the store. Paul's face
is entrenched in my memory. His serene smile flashes again and again in my
mind. I try to shake it off, but I keep seeing that red hair, that pale
white face, and I remember that when he looked at me that last time, when
he smiled at me before he left, my heart was racing.


(c) Copyright 2001

Please do not reproduce any part of this without permission from the
author, me. Not that you would on purpose or to hurt anyone, it's just that
I want to know about it if you're going to use this for any reason. I mean,
I did write it, so I own it. At least email me and ask. That's all I ask
for. Thanks.

( 7/2/01)