It’s been a long fucking week. We have a new upstairs neighbor who likes loud music with a lot of bass tones and doesn’t understand the concept of apartment building “quiet hours”. My back has more knots in it than a macrame hammock and every muscle is on full red alert, so naturally every single document I’ve needed today has been tucked away in the 2 ton bottom drawer of my filing cabinet that requires the strength of an Olympic weight lifter to open. And to top things off, earlier this morning I unwittingly commented on a friend’s Facebook status only for it to turn out to be some stupid chain letter trap which I refuse to help propagate. If that makes me a humorless bitch, then fuck it, I guess I’m a humorless bitch.
Basically I’m just pissed off about everything in particular, and while I’d love to go on a big long rant about it, I’m pretty sure the sheer magnitude of the resulting written rage would melt the faces off everyone in a ten mile radius. And nobody wants that.
So instead I’m going to cheer myself up by telling another tale from my cashier days. This is the story of Lola.
The first time I met Lola, I was working a morning shift, checking out customers on my usual till and trying not to yawn excessively. It was around 10:30am on a Saturday, and as with most mornings at our store, things had been dull as dishwater thus far.
Until Lola stepped into my line.
I saw a lot of things during my tenure as a cashier. A man who was missing most of his nose and palate due to cancer but who still came in regularly to buy cigarettes. Strung out drug addicts the approximate weight of a bobby pin who wobbled through my checkout trying to buy clearance donuts with third party cheques. A man wearing nothing but pajama pants and a neon green mesh vest through which protruded a glistening Octomom-caliber belly that was visibly dripping sweat onto the floor.
So when I looked over and noticed that the latest customer to join my queue happened to have the chest hair of Tom Selleck, the sinewy muscle definition of Iggy Pop, and some killer double D breasts, it was business as usual.
But according to the expression of the woman waiting ahead of this busty apparition, Satan incarnate might as well have gotten in line behind her. A soccer mom type with etched-in frown lines and an ostentatiously sensible haircut, she clearly had no frame of reference for this situation, so she defaulted to trying to set the world record for most successive double-takes. Either that or she had decided it was a nice day for a case of good old fashioned whiplash.
I watched Soccer Mom as her eyes traveled Lola’s 6+ foot frame in second-long bursts, each glance taking in a new horror. From the most fabulous cherry red wig that ever fabuled to the penciled-in Lucille Ball lips; the overstuffed scarlet bustier to that painfully short gold lamé miniskirt. The torn fishnet tights. The blinged-out silver platform sandals…by the time I had finished with the two customers ahead of Soccer Mom and started ringing up her items, her eyebrows had climbed so high on her forehead they were threatening to fly right off and lodge themselves in the rafters.
To her credit, Lola (so nicknamed, you may have guessed by now, because I fucking love this song) feigned ignorance and pretended to be immensely interested in the tabloids during this entire performance.
Soccer Mom was now so uncomfortable that she was visibly twitching. She stole increasingly suspicious glances at Lola and kept shifting towards the door as though the befishnetted Amazon might leak loose morals all over her utilitarian handbag if she stood too close. I had to tell her the dollar amount for her order twice before she snapped out of her escape route planning and started to dig around for a credit card.
I swiped her card. She signed the slip. I handed her receipt…and she ran, literally RAN out of the store with her purchases, shooting one last terrified glance back at Lola’s cleavage as if the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse were poised to spring out of there and ride her down before she could make it to her car.
Lola and I watched her go, then looked at each other.
“She seems nice,” I cracked.
Lola heaved her sculpted shoulders in a dramatic sigh and tossed a back a lock of shimmering red hair. “They just can’t handle my big tits!” she got out, and then we dissolved into laughter.