Gainfully employed at the local Chevron station, I found myself staring at the clock’s hands pointing in analog omnipresence.

The giddy girls would come back from the clubs soon, ready to find their way to the nearest bathroom. Never with money to buy anything and always with their boyfriends behind them to gawk at beer I couldn’t sell after 11 PM. All this making me come back to the store to let them in when the time would be better spent taking out the trash at the pumps.

Homeward bound at 2:30 A.M., they’d be. And I’d still have three hours to go. They mock me. Back to work.

I had just snapped out of Writer’s daydream number five by becoming cognizant of the song playing over the coffee station in front of my counter. “Fighter” by Christina Aguilera is enough cause for a disaster. But this wasn’t the first time. Oh no. By this point, it had needled stitches of synapses pulsing those synthesized drumbeats. From my optic nerves it hammered the back of my eyes, rattling against the inside of my skull. Cutting off all other sound.

After all you put me through

You’d think I’d despise you

Ugh. I spoke it out loud to the nothing I was accustomed to by this time of the night. I sprinted towards the back of the store, away from the sound. There, by the soda machines, I found a syrupy mess. Easy to clean. The real challenge is finding different ways to keep myself entertained enough to block out the music.

The door creaked open before the scrubbing began.

I knew the two girls’ motive before the door had shut itself. By the way they shuffled their feet in their flailed skirts and how they gawked around the room as if looking for a road sign. I waited until they had found my eyes to approach and greet them. I had rehearsed this many times. “Hi there.”

“Hey doyouknowwherethebathroomsare?” They spat at me.

“Between the Dr. Pepper and the Coke Machine on your right.” I pointed.

“Thanks.”

As they skirted across the floor with sliding clops coming from their high heels, I noticed that I still had the towel in my hand. Clean the coffee station. I stepped with a swagger, pretending I hadn’t realized what awaited me.

Cause it makes me that much stronger

Makes me work a little bit harder

The music jabbed into my ear like a hot poker searing a wet willy. My head fought to yell over the internal infiltration of Mrs. Aguilera.

I can beat this. Just think Carl Sandburg. I likened myself to the toughened man in his poem, “Chicago,” to push myself closer to the French Roast.

Made Me Learn A Little Bit Faster

I’m the Trash bag Tier! Change giver! Card Slider of the PostModern World!MADE MY SKIN A LITTLE BIT THICKER

You can’t beat me . . . I am Chicago! I am Sacramento! Grrrr!

A door opened in the relative distance with a pair of skuttering steps. I caught their movements over the ruckus.

MAKES ME THAT MUCH SMARTER

“Can’t . . . Fight . . . it.” They stared at me now.

THANKS FOR MAKING ME A FIGHTER

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

The girls each gave me a puzzled look. Horrified, they clitter-clobbered away. But before they left, the blonde turned around and said, “I’ll never go to the bathroom again!”

And they left. Never to come back.

Forever.

Forever. I looked up at the clock from the counter I had been staring into. 2:40 A.M.Ugh. It had been a full twenty-five minutes since the last customer had entered. And the trash wasn’t done. Back to work . . . I mean it.

And I have to. Because the pump garbage cans never stay empty, and it’s gotta be somebody’s job to throw them out. And until I pay for my B.A. in English with a Creative Writing Concentration, I will never let garbage know the security garnered from stagnation. So when that door creaked open, I hummed myself a tune.

For Sacramento and for myself: Thanks for making me a Fighter.