The half-bearded lady with the half-rotten teeth looked at me from across the cash register, and said “you have to show your bag”. Since I am male, a teen, and wore a hoodie I was of course also a thief, and this creature wanted me to prove my innocence.
I am afraid that I do not work well in these situations. My reactions tend to be ever so slightly on the stronger side. Add to that, the fact that I’d been to the pharmacy to buy some more intimate “esoteric articles” that come in tubes and that I don’t exactly smear on my ACNE. I certainly was not going to pour out the contents of my bag onto the conveyor belt. In particular not in front of this creature.
I am afraid I made quite a scene. Then the supervisor came to see what all the shouting was about, and I was asked to leave the store. I am good at making scenes sometimes. I’m not sure making scenes is particularly helpful, or that they convince anyone that I’ve been grievously wronged. Particularly since I’m male, a teenager, and wearing a hoodie. But making a scene feels wonderfully good.
Fine, I’ll never shop there again in my life. Neither will my friends, or their friends, or friends of their friends. That place will be shut down, and bulldozed, and the owners will erect a sign on the property saying “this cow is the reason why my children are starving” with a big picture of the lady in the cash register. They will be teaching lessons about this in trade school in the future. I will write books about her, and her distorted face will sneer from every bookshelf from Haparanda to Buenos Aires.
Wait, you’ll see.
I regained my composure by eating soft serve ice cream with chocolate chips in the sunshine while I waited for Maria to show up. We were supposed to meet at one o’clock. At one thirty she still hadn’t arrived, and she’s not answering her phone. Then I biked “home” and wrote this instead. Next I’ll write on my book.
Nobody understands the level of my outrage. Mum texted me and told me to calm down and get over myself. Mark is not texting me back at the moment even if it’s five minutes ago that I texted him the last time. And where did Maria go to? It is so unlike her to not leave a message if she was late, or was stopped from going.
The whole world is against me at the moment. I shall crawl under the bed and snap and growl at people who pass by. If you read about some teen that’s been captured by a dog-catcher with a big old net in the middle of Sweden, and who had to be muzzled, that will be me.
My novel’s target length is eighty thousand words, but I’m realising that it will probably be more than one hundred thousand words long. Which will present a problem because nobody wants a nobody with a manuscript that long.
I also had a rejection today, so I’m sort of wondering if I’m not just pursuing a pipe dream. Maybe I’ll never be a writer; just a hack sitting in his bedroom chipping away at a keyboard until I’m eighty and they wheel me out to the old people’s home, having written nothing that’s worth anything.
Maybe I should take up plumbing. Mark’s dad is doing all right, and makes a good living. I could see myself in the future hauling pipe into kitchens and hitching up my jeans to hide the arse crack, and then wiping up sewage from the floor. Sometimes that kind of future seems more real than writing.
And ugh, tomorrow I get the results. And yay, tomorrow it’s our one year anniversary. I wonder what will colour the day most; abject despair or blissful happiness? We’ll see. I doubt I’ll sleep tonight.