I’m extremely frustrated by work right now. I was the first one in Friday and Saturday and anyone who came in at the same time as me left way before me – we all get paid the same, no matter who comes in first or leaves last. Then Sunday I come in at 5 and Francis tells me I’m closing. Bullshit. I’m pissed. I’m sick of working longer hours than everyone else and never getting to leave early. I told Francis this, in other words, last night after the Giants won. I’m very honest with him about it. I don’t think it’s fair.
Tonight, he tells me I’m not to come in at 5 anymore on Fridays and Saturdays – 6:30 from now on. I’m not to close on those days either, but I have to stay until the bar is closed. OK, that’s fair. He doesn’t want me closing on Sundays either, but this raises a problem because Corinne has to close then, and she closes Saturday and Monday. Mondays I have to be in at 5, but they’ll let me out as early as they can. Francis is looking out for me. He doesn’t want me h0lding things in anymore. “You need to communicate with me. Don’t hold it in. Are you happy now?” I smile. Yes, thank you. “See? Life is easy. We like you, we want you to stay. Just tell me when something is wrong. We’ll work it out.” OK, Francis, you’re right. I want us to be on the same page. Thank you. Sigh of relief. These French people always make me feel like a psycho American.
Tuesday, finally, the couch bed arrives. They said they’d be here between 9am and 3pm. What is up with the enormous time frame? Mike goes to work, and I wake up at 8:30 to put the “bed” away, aka sheets and blanket laid out on the floor. I vacuum and get the room ready for the couch’s arrival. I can’t leave – obviously – so I do what anyone in my position would do – watch episodes of Vampire Diaries until I hear a knock on the door. It’s crazy how fast they are, and it’s only two guys. It’s as if as soon as they pulled up a gun went off and they’re trying to beat their best time. It takes only 10, maybe 15 minutes for them to do everything. Then they’re out the door and I’m left with a sweet chocolate brown couch in the middle of my room. I LOVE it, and it takes up a little less space than I thought it would.
It’s so weird to have my own things like this, like big things. I’ve never bought a couch before this. A couch reminds me of home. When I was younger, my brother tortured me – notice I didn’t say ‘us’. I really got the short end of the stick on that one. My friends probably did, too. LMonny and I think Miriah got the worst of it (I might be remembering wrong, he probably tortured Kelly O, too). We would use the couch as base, at least it was base in our mind. There was really no safe place to be. Stephen would shut the power off in the entire house. And my parents were nowhere to be found. How did that happen? Where were they? Sleeping? I have no idea. We would smoosh together on the couch, waiting for the attack, and my brother would come after us…with a broom. Sounds harmless, but he would shove that broom into us, into our skin, and it would hurt. We’d be legitimately laughing and crying at the same time, after screaming from sheer fear. Did I mention he would shove me into a sleeping bag and drag me around the house? Did I also mention I’m claustrophobic? Wonder how that happened.
So the apartment is really coming together. We have our couch bed and coffee table now; it actually is starting to look like a home. There’s so much more we need, but at least we don’t have to sleep on the floor anymore.
*Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros