So, there's three weeks left until school starts back. Three weeks left of the home-life. Three weeks left of my dad coming down the hall at three AM and telling me to go to bed. Three weeks left of seeing all the friends I never get to see while I'm at school. Sadly, I haven't had the chance to see them that often because, also, there's three weeks left of my job.

        I'm a register jockey. Have you heard of Quick-N-Save? That's my job. When you're just getting off work and need the caffeine pick-me-up of the sugar and powder type, which is what we call a cappuccino, or need something to put in your stomach, which is what we call a nourishing meal while on the job, then you come to a place like this. The person who can never ring it up quick enough, take your money quick enough, and give your change back quick enough, well that's me. I'm a clerk!

        It's interesting, really. In all reality, I'm no different than you. For some reason, when I slip on that work shirt and you're wearing your back-sweat stained shirt, we're from two different worlds. If scientists are still looking for the black holes (why do they have to be black?), just look in my general direction. I've set up shop in one. And it's not pretty. Wars never are.

        If this is a war-zone, then my boss is like the general. And like any good general, he'll tell you, "Good job, trooper. Your country really appreciates your work." But like any good foot soldier, I'm dispensable. Seriously, how hard is it to push up ten number configurations in a random assortment of patterns? Not hard at all.

        He knows I'm dispensable, so if he needs to be himself around me, without the customers (press) visible, he has full range. I'm just a tiny red dot on his big dart-board.

        Yesterday, we had just experienced a huge rush. Like most jobs, if you work hard, you balance that out with a nice refreshing moment to relax. The person I was working with, Deborah, decided to use the restroom. I swear, she has a peanut for a bladder. Any amount of stress just causes it to kick in.

        As for me, since there were no customers in the store, I leaned against the counter and grabbed one of the magazines we sell. It was "Auto Trends, 2005." Luckily I'm not trendy with my car or this magazine would have me depressed. I read two pages into it and did not hear my boss walking in.

        (Since this is my first quote, I'll state now that my quotations are more like paraphrases. I don't have a perfect memory, so I can't remember exactly what is said from one sentence to the next. But I remember context fairly well. Just, if someone reads this and spots where I quoted you, don't sue me for slander or anything if I was off by a "the" or maybe a phrase like "I strongly dislike that." I'm trying here, work with me.)

        "Brenton," he says to me, "I don't pay you to read." He walks over and takes the magazine from my hands and places it on the rack.

        He doesn't pay me to do a lot of things, yet they're still part of my job.

        "I'm sure there's something you could be doing," he adds.

        "Yeah, like taking a break for a moment," I say. "Did you not see the line we just had?"

        "Must have missed that while I was in the back," he says. "But, if that's so, then a lot of stuff is missing from the shelves. What are we going to do if someone else comes in and needs that product, but someone already bought it?"

        I'd just do what I always do. "Tell them sorry, but we're sold out."

        He's a short man with a mustache and no hair on his head. If you've ever been in the store and seen a man that fits the description, you probably saw my boss. Contrarily, his wife is fine. Taller than him. Great blue eyes and blonde hair. I will never understand that one. What force of nature decided on these two copulating?

        I just assume she said everything he wanted to hear. Otherwise, she would have experienced the wheeze. That noise is when he starts wheezing through his nose when someone isn't saying exactly what he wants to hear. "No," he wheezes. "We plan ahead and check the inventory in the back. If something's missing from the shelves, there's a chance we have it in the back. Plan ahead and we'll have smooth sailing."

        Deborah made it back at that moment. I don't like to talk to her anyway, or anyone presently standing near registers, so I just nodded and walked to the back. Another battle, another war. Luckily, my tenure is almost up.

        See, the thing is, I really don't care about the products here. I only care about making some money over the summer to supplement my spending during college. But stuff we sell, like a packaged donut? I'm sorry, but I'm too far down the totem pole to have a genuine interest. My only input on that product is paper or plastic. Maybe if I was the person who decided which brand to stock in the store, I'd care. Or even better, if that WAS my product being stocked. Let's not stop there. What if I was the person who dabbled in ingredients and produced that fine specimen? Ok, that's where I will start caring. But as it stands, no thank you.

        I grabbed a buggy and into it I tossed some of the products I knew the store would be low on. Before heading back out to the storefront, I indulged in one of those donuts. Ok, that brings me a little higher on the totem pole. Call it a verdict test. I call it nourishment.