The guy in the red shirt and I are talking about Little Miss Sunshine, and I forget his name for a second and take a quick glance at his nametag. “Nate,” I say, “I love that movie.” So far we have just about everything in common, including a minimum-wage job for the long summer ahead. The only difference in our jobs is that he’s a cashier and I fold t-shirts and pretend to be useful. I’ve only recently started my descent into purgatory.

“It’s a great movie.”
   
“It is.” I hesitate, wondering if the conversation is going to stop here, in a blaze of David Ives-esq Sure Thing proportions. But as Nate’s about to say something, a woman holding a sweater walks up to his register.

“Good morning, how are you?” He asks her, and I move away, back to my folding, only half paying attention. The customers begin to trickle into a line, and I move to the back of the department, wanting to keep my job. I am acutely aware, however, of every movement I make, of everything I do, and most certainly, everything I say. I take up residence organizing sale sweaters by one of the large glass windows that look out to the ocean, across the street. Watching it keeps me calm, and it reminds me how lucky I am that I at least get to work in a beautiful place. Of course, I am inside, staring at the beautiful great outdoors.

I am working at the Post. It is my first week. So far, I don’t mind it. It’s air-conditioned, there are Poptarts in the breakroom, and I get to do mindless menial tasks instead of actually having to think. It’s not a bad gig, all things considered.

My eyes stray from the sweaters to the rest of the department. I look to the registers at the top of it, and notice that a rack is blocking my view. Part of me is relieved. Good. He can’t see you. The other part of me thinks, So, uh, that whole thing for nothing?  These two parts of me are very contradictory, and don’t really get along. It’s the simple things.  Warren, the only man who works in my department, comes over.       

“Hey Dante, how are you?”

“I’m fine, Warren. You?”

“Not bad.”

Warren is an over-enthusiastic 27-year-old who has been working at the Post since he graduated college with a degree in Biochemistry. He’s quite happy, I think, to have someone under the age of 45 working with him.

 “See you in a few,” I say, bowing away from the sweaters. I walk out of the department, in such a hurry that I don’t even notice Nate, either way.

Our breakroom is actually quite comfortable, and due to its position in the building, quite cool. There is a vending machine with both Poptarts and Chocolate Milk, and this has become my new favorite combination. It satisfies some need in me to feel like I’m a kid again, and gives me enough sugar to make it to lunch. I sit at a table in the corner, and idly watch the TV, listening to pages that come over the intercom instead of the usual 80s soundtrack. I am halfway through the first Poptart when Nate walks in.

If there’s one thing I can’t do, it’s eating in front of other people, especially people of the opposite sex, i.e. men. I don’t know what that says about me, but it’s the truth.

Nate, I know, has seen me. I pretend to be casual and eat my Poptart. The cynic in me is laughing its head off.

“Hey,” he says. I look up. He’s smiling at me. “Can I sit here?”

“Sure,” I say, trying to act casual.

He sits down, and watches the TV as I pick at the strawberry sprinkles on the top of my Poptart. After a minute, he asks, “How are you?”

“Fine. You?”

“I’m doing quite well, actually.” He smiles at me.

“That’s good.”

We start to talk about banalities, and, somewhere in there, our conversation picks up a pace. I then notice I’ve finished my Poptart, and I have to go back upstairs. I make apologies that he waves off (“It’s your job,”) he says, and I leave. I catch a glance of him through the door, eyes focused intently on the TV. I can’t quite figure him out yet.
   
                *****************

I love it when it rains. There’s something about it, how it feels, how it smells, and it’s a great conversation starter (“Hey, look, it’s raining!”). On this particular raining day, I was leaning against Nate’s register, very blatantly not doing work. When it rains, we’re usually busy, but today there was a slight lull, and I was trying to get out of doing the most work possible. No one could ever say that Dante Stephens didn’t try to get away with anything. I notice Colin sulking into the department, and I slip away past the registers and pretend to be getting a drink of water.

It’s a little after nine, and I’ve just gotten off the floor. It’s closing, and I make my way down to my locker, where my bag and lunchbox wait for me. As I walk out from the air-conditioned store, I pause. Part of me wants to wait for Nate, as I know he’s still inside. But that would be weird. I move away from the door and check my cell phone, wondering how long I can stand outside for without looking odd. Just as I’m about to give up, Nate walks out. I pretend not to notice him, and finish checking the phone, putting it back in my bag. He walks up to me.

“Hey,” he says. I turn around.

“Are you walking that way?”  He points to the direction of the employee parking lot. I nod, and we begin to walk. We talk about our day, and then the conversation turns to books. He tells me of the books he likes, and mentions the author Douglas Coupland, who I love. He looks surprised, and as we walked through the parking lot, I realize that we’re parked next to each other.

“What are the odds?” I ask, laughing slightly.

He laughs and nods. “Hey. I have some books. Want to borrow them?”

“Sure.”

He opens the door of his car, which I can see, is a mess. He bends down and shuffles through the backseat, and pulls out several books, handing them to me. Standing under the bright lights of the parking lot, I smile slightly. Nate is an interesting character, and as time goes on, I guess I’m developing some sort of attachment to him. But I don’t like him as that, I mean, as something more than a friend. It’s just nice to have a friend to talk to, someone to make the hours more bearable.

“Well,” I say. “Thanks. I guess I should be going.”

“Yeah. Me too.”

“Are you—er—working tomorrow?” I ask.

“Yep. Twelve to five. What about you?”

“Nine to one.”

“I see.” He fumbles with his keys. “Well. Have a good night.” He goes to get into his car, and I turn to mine. I want to ask him if he wants to get some coffee, do something—it’s warm and early—but I don’t. I know better. I say good night and we both leave. As I drive home, all I can think about are him and the books that are sitting on my seat.

by Allison Novak ‘10