Pissy

A series of things happened to me on the way home that were very interesting, to say the least. First of which being that I got off of work. Okay, so that isn’t interesting so much as it is… uninteresting, but allow me to continue. As I stepped out of work, very angry for reasons I will not go into, I flung my giant 80oz. cup of Mountain Dew, which I’d drained angrily during the course of the day, into the trash can outside of the Record Store. Since it was one of those useless trash cans with a covered, ornamental top and the wire frame sides, my cup just bounced off of the rim, into my face, and onto the sidewalk. So, sort of undermining the outlet of anger, I picked it up and neatly wedged it in the little slot provided between the rim of the trash receptacle and its useless top. This only made me more fuming, and I was already angry, for reasons I will not go into.
Let me go into why I was angry. I have this manager at the Record Store. And while I like all of my other managers and co-workers and a good majority of the customers, this is the lousiest manager I’ve ever had to work with… and I’ve worked at Peppi’s. She’s got this way of meanly cutting into anything I’m doing with her rhetoric and backhanded compliments and makes it look all sugarcoated. She’s quite possibly the fakest person I’ve ever met, with her head bobs and weaves and shoulder and arm movements, “and it looks all choreographed and she talks all like this with her Goddamn patronizing tone.”
I went to clock in at the beginning of my shift, and I was a good twenty minutes early. We have this rule at the Record Store, that, if you want to go behind the counter, for any reason, you have to ask a manager. This rule is so that employees won’t be fooling around back there when they don’t know what they’re doing, and so that all the employees aren’t back there instead of actually helping customers. Plus, it shows a higher regard for respect and professionalism if we have to ask for permission. The rule is fine. The rule makes sense. I’m not whining about the rule, I’m whining about the manager. Do not confuse my angst!
So, my manager is ringing up a customer, and I’m just standing there waiting politely because the last time this happened, I broke in while she was ringing a customer in, asking to clock myself in behind the counter, and she chewed my head off, in her patronizing, sugarcoated, fakey way, because customers lives’ and purchases are more important than my own. I’m not arguing that! That’s just fine! But this time, when I stood there patiently waiting, after the customer leaves, my manager says to me, “Did you want something?” To which I reply, “I need to clock in.” And then she says, “You can’t just stand there and wait, you need to say something like ‘clock in?’ or something.” Then I said, “Oh, I didn’t want to interrupt.” I could see her face change, and she smiled all fakey and said, “Well, you were wasting time, and it was still an interruption since you were over there trying to get my attention, moving into my field of vision, waving your arms and such,” she said all this while bobbing her head and making useless arm gestures of her own. Now, I hadn’t been waving or ‘getting into her field of vision,’ but why argue with her? My job may depend on it.
Every day, if I’m doing something, or standing somewhere, or I walk up and wait for her to finish her current conversation, she looks at me, interrupting herself, and says, “Did you need something?” all indignant-like. On separate occasions, she has told me that A. “I need to be on one side of the store, even if there are no customers on my side and lots unattended to on the other side, because this is my side and what if a customer comes in?” and also, B. “Why are you just standing on this side of the store when there are customers on that side?” She has gotten ‘politely’ mad at me for asking her questions, as if I’ve been there for years and I’m supposed to know the answer, and she gets ‘smilingly’ indignant when I do things without asking, and they get done wrong.
I little consistency goes a long way.
So that’s why I was fuming as I left the Record Store and flung my 80oz. drink against my own forehead. Then I went into Tom’s, knowing that I would have to use my debit card, because, as usual, I am broke. No cash. And I go inside, grab myself a menu, sit somewhere in the back… and wait. Then I read. And I read some more. And I wait some more. Apparently, everyone is waiting except for the waitresses. And I’m reading Mark Twain’s Life on the Mississippi in 8 point font and I get through twenty pages before I notice that nobody has asked me for even a drink order, so I look up and flag down a passing waitress. She gets all indignant on me like I’m a horrible nuisance and a waste of her time. Okay… uh, bitch, maybe if you’d taken my order twenty minutes ago, you wouldn’t have to roll your eyes now. So I order a Mountain Dew with no ice because when you order ice you’re just watering down your drink and why pay for that? I mean, ice is free. It’s just solidified water. Why pay the same amount for a beverage when 50% becomes solidified water.
She says, “we don’t have any Mountain Dew.”
I say, “what do you have?”
She rambles on, “Pepsi, Diet Pepsi, Iced Tea, Raspberry Iced Tea…”
I interrupt, “okay, bring me a Raspberry Iced Tea, except don’t put ice in it, so I guess just bring me Raspberry Tea.” Ha freaking ha.
I should note at this point that this is not the waitress that I sort of have a crush on there, who looks a little like Kirsten Dunst, which is funny because I don’t particularly like Kirsten Dunst. Go figure. This is just some waitress. Some bad waitress. Some poorly tipped waitress.
So I settle back into my book, actually looking forward to Raspberry Tea, when she brings me, and figure this one out, Mountain Dew. With ice.
Once again, why argue with her? My meal may depend on it.
During the course of my meal, double-egg and cheese on Italian toast, thank you for asking, I down about three of these Mountain Dews, pay, finish my book, and leave.
I walk, in the rain, down to the Beehive, where I find about seven e-mails from my mother. How are you? Are you alive? Are you dead? If you’re dead who’s feeding your cat? You haven’t e-mailed me in two days. What do you mean your phone isn’t working? Why haven’t you called me? You have a phone card. Use the phone card. If I were you and I weren’t dead, I would use the phone card. Hell, if I were dead I may still use it. Its free and its common courtesy to call your mother from time to time. Do you really have Magnum P.I. for ten dollars at work?
I write back, “how’s dad?” and my usual e-mail signature, “Psalms 27:11; and the meerkats shall inherit the Earth.”
While at the Beehive, I down a couple hot chocolates, on my debit card, because its freaking cold out. Since I’m close to a friend’s house, I walk up the street in the rain, and the closer I get their house, the more I realize… I have to pee. I just downed an 80oz. Mountain Dew, three additional Mountain Dews, and two hot chocolates.
And I’m really pissed. I mean, I finally figured out where the term, ‘pissed’ comes from. Some guy, who would have probably normally only been in a slightly perturbed, angry, or even fuming mood, went over the edge into ‘pissed’ because, yes indeedy, the lack of an available toilet quadrupled his seering-with-rage state,
I finally arrive at the door, dancing at this point, and knock. I knock again. Shave-and-a-haircut, as always. I open the door. I yell, “Hello? Is anybody home?” I wait for a reply. I step inside a little. “Hello?” I close the door behind me. It’s eerily quiet. I expect one of two things, to find a trail of blood leading to their drained corpses upstairs in the bathroom, or for them to greet me as ashen zombies moaning for brains of their own.
“Hello?” I say a little more quietly.
If I read about the massacre at their house in the news later, that’s really going to suck. I mean, now my finger prints are all over the place. I reopen the door behind me.
“I really have to pee.” I yell.
That’s when I decide that its best to go home, pissed though I may be.
For those of you that don’t know, I live at the top of this big fucking hill. Which means I have to climb a hundred or so steps just to put me within five blocks of my place. And I am really pissed. I could fucking hit somebody. I could fucking hit that manager. Man, if I could take back all the times I punched, kicked, or threw things at other people, like my little cousins, or my older cousins, or that idiot in high school, or that bigger idiot in middle school, and then roll them into one really good punch at my manager, I’d do it. Hell, I’d really only need to use the punches against my little cousin, but the rest are for catharsis.
As I get closer to my house, the more I have to pee. The more it rains, the more I have to pee. There’s this psychological thing that I get when I get near home, or when it rains, or when I enter the video game section of a Wal-Mart for some reason. I run up my stairs to my apartment, and kick the door. Shit. It’s locked. And I don’t have a key for the front door, because my landlord is a shit.
So I run back down the stairs, grabbing my mail, which is wet, and head back around the house until I get to the back door. I unlock it, I kick it in, and I run for the bathroom. I shed my hat, I throw the mail somewhere, it’s dark, my keys land on something metallic, and my jacket is near the bathroom door, I think, I can only hope that my backpack landed on the bed, since my camera is in it.
Once in the bathroom, I’m too frantic to think of little things like light switches, so I just drop trou, aim and release. And it feels so good. It more than makes up for the pissiness of the crappy day earlier. It’s ecstasy. Or it’s like ecstasy, but I’ve never been on it. It’s like heaven, but I’ve never been there. I imagine I probably should visit some day, but this is a nice preview. No offense to ladies present, but you will never know the joy of male urination, after its been pent up for a long time. It’s like all the little pee molecules were in prison, and they get out to find that all their ladies’ waited in celibacy for them. So happy am I, that it takes me a few seconds to realize that, instead of the normal ‘sploosh sploosh sploosh sploosh’ noise that accompanies this feeling, I’m hearing an unfamiliar, yet altogether too distinct ‘pit pit pit pit pit pit.’ I reach over to the light switch within arms’ length that before had been obscured by clouded judgment. And, sure enough, my toilet seat is down.
And I’m not even aiming anywhere close to that.
So I do what any other man would do in this situation… I finish. I mean, it hurts more to stop than it does to clean up after.
Meanwhile, my cat is whining even though I know that the litter box was just cleaned, the water bowl is full, and the food is overflowing and, on top of that, she usually tears into her food bags regardless. I look out through the open bathroom door, seeing the maze of items flung about in my confusion, and notice my little cat caterwauling for absolutely no fucking reason. So, after washing and drying my hands, I walk out of the bathroom, look briefly at my cat, pick her up, and throw her across the room.
Not because she’s whining, not to punish her, not because I’m annoyed or pissed, because now that I have pissed, I’m not. No. I just did it because if she’s whining about nothing, after the day that I just had, I’m gonna give her something to complain about.
God, if he knows what’s good for them, had better not ever give me kids.

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