'the adventures of a thirty-ish university graduate' or, alternately and perhaps much more aptly: 'as mad as a barking fox'

Friday, August 06, 2004

oh it's such a perfect day i'm glad i spent it with you

"why don't you go FUCK yourself!" heather exclaims, eyes sliding to the floor, middle finger pointed towards the heavens like a compas pulled by the north pole, as she storms out the back door of the fish shop.

"GLADLY!" is my not so suave, yet strangely satisfying response.

today, like no other day, the shit hath hitteth the fan in all matters related to the fish shop. with the full moon and the north wind, there's been a shortage of fish in general- there's just enough to get us by. in heather howell's world, this means that everything is a commotion and a drama and a struggle. everything must pass her stamp of approval or else it just won't do.

like a tub of whitefish carol cut this morning.

heather stopped what she was doing, and arms swinging in a strangely nazi-ish way, made the few steps over to the fish and began looking at it. after a few pokes and a few prods, she starts talking. "ok carol, i want you to wax this and write HEATHER ONLY on it so that no one else touches it."

[just to make sure we're clear here, i'm the only other person who would touch it. ] however, instead of biting my tongue, i speak up. afterall, i take care of the customers that walk in the door, which is where we profit in this business.

"uh, heather, i'm going to need some fish for the counter." her eyes snap to me, dark like the lifeless forms of dead things in a field on a star less night.

"great for you. I'M trying to do market here, and I"M taking care of eight ounces AND dinners." she speaks as if this settles things resolutely. tom breaks in when he sees me fuming by the sink, telling us it's just fish. i see his point, but am once again tired of letting poor-me get her way, so i tell her to label her damned fish, and comment increduosly about heather only being written on fish, fer fuck's sakes.

oops. i spoke against the princess, so she runs outside for a fag bemoaning her fate.

mom decides that while i've got the pot stirring, she might as well add her dash of salt and throw her weight behind a stirring spoon as well. it's going great until tom tells me and mom to just "shut the fuck up." so then mom storms out, and i storm out because tom's made me cry like a girl.

and then, instead of crying, i make my way back into the shop with red eyes and tears stuck to my glasses and heather is there and the world narrows and there's just she and i. she doesn't know it yet, but i am like a nuclear sub, stealthily sneaking up to her, ready to let forth an array of weapons that no one has ever seen the like of before.

she calls my marmee self righteous and i let it blow. i release the shit.

i call her incompetent.

and then she tells me to go fuck myself and storms out, again. but when she comes back it's to anounce that she's quitting because we've made it clear she's not wanted, blah blah blah.

all i can think is ding dong the witch is dead...


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