contact has been made

I’m standing at the register minding my own business today when someone rushes int he door, dumps a backpack in front of the Star Wars display in facing the door, and then runs out. At about the same time, I hear a strange noise…

Images of that month I left the safety of Dublin to commence living in Belfast came flooding back. What were the first things they told me? Don’t wear a Celtic Football jersey in North Belfast, Avoid the Reverend Ian Paisley, and if someone leaves a bag behind in a public place, run like hell. I moved to the farthest area of the counter, trying to ascertain how much explosive material that bag would hold, and whether or not ducking behind the counter would save me or not (probably not). Should I alert someone? Should I run and chuck the bag out into the parking lot where it would do less damage? Basically, I was paralyzed with fear…

Then Gus came in, picked his bag up, and went on his merry way. Apparently, he dumped his bag off before he ran out to chase a shoplifter, who had bolted out the back door, thus causing the strange sound (not the ticking of a bomb, rather the back door alarm, which I had never heard before). Boy, did I feel like an idiot!

About an hour later, I stopped shaking. When I tried to laugh it off, and tell Percival what a dork I was, he didn’t get it at all, and just thought I had been afraid that the shoplifter was going to shoot me or something. Except… I didn’t even know there was a shoplifter until way later, since he had booked it out the back door where I couldn’t see.

It was weird– I don’t normally stress out about random abstract occurrences which are impossible to prevent. I’m not like my mom, Sarah C-S, etc. I’m not worried that freedom-hating terrorists are going to bomb the T, or that an asteroid is going to demolish the earth (one of mom’s former fears) or anything like that. It’s totally different, though, when something like this happens. Wow, I discovered that I will be completely, utterly useless should a terrorist ever attack for real!

Before I left, I gave everyone a display of my true psycho medication withdrawl self. I’m not proud. I counted out my register, and the numbers kept coming up completely wrong. I still have no idea what was going on. Eventually, Calvin fixed it, but I got really frustrated and freaked out. That’s another thing that happens when I’m off my meds, and particularly when I’m in that oh-so-fun week-long period of brain chemistry withdrawal– I get insanely frustrated at little things to the point of freakishness.

It’s true, though– I can’t be trusted with numbers. Not. At. All. Take the example that happens every single time I have to enter someone’s credit card number manually into the register– I look at the number. I read 697. I am thinking six-nine-seven. I look at the number pad, thinking “six-nine-seven” over and over again. As I watch my fingers, they invariably type “seven-six-nine.” or perhaps “nine-six-seven” (notice how I’m not typing those digits out here). Thus I have to start over again, because you can’t just back up and delete the last character or two. Meanwhile, the customer is getting annoyed… Or, I have to type in the SKU for a product that is too small to have a bar code to scan. I’ll type in totally the wrong thing, and the customer will go into cardiac arrest because the register will show that he or she is about to purchase some $70.00 porno book or something. Anyway, my brain can’t handle numbers. Having to make it actually do math is like asking an amoeba to tapdance while reciting the Gettysburg Address. Maybe I should look for a new line of work– maybe being a janitor would be more my speed. Oh yeah, I can’t be a janitor– you need 5 years of experience and a “Statement of Sanitation” to do that. I had forgotten about all those custodial jobs I didn’t get that I applied for last year! Dammit, I’m screwed.