Killjoy in the suburbs

I don’t think I can stand another minute in this sweaty building. The boiling pots of water fill the front of the kitchen with steam, making the walls perspire, and my stupid logo t-shirt smell like shit. Dante should have visited this place before writing his inferno; it’s hell.
I got this stupid job the day I turned sixteen. Located smack-dab in the middle of downtown Naperville, Noodles sees the worst our city has to offer, and I’m a witness of it all. Being the face of the store, cashier, I have to deal with all types of people: The power soccer mom with a gang of kids and a list of bitchy commands, the drunken high school girls that hang off their jock boyfriends who order a diet coke and nothing else, the entire college football team after a big game. For lack of a more poetic phrase, I’m gonna have to say, this fucking sucks.
Sometimes I piss people off on purpose, hoping maybe I’ll be sent home for the night, or at least put in the back to roll silver wear. I guess it could be worse. I could actually be serving these horrible people. That wouldn’t go over well. It would only be a matter of time before a yuppie middle aged woman with a overly-botoxed face and too much perfume criticizes me one too many times then, oops, lap full of hot soup. I laugh. Its day dreams like this that keep me sane. Sometimes I’ll tuck a piece of paper under the cash register and draw what I see at the tables. There’s the pre-teen girls to the right of me, picking at their food and talking about boys, shirts protruding from the rumpled socks they’ve stuffed into bras they don’t even need to be wearing. I’ll draw them as vampires, waiting for any chance to suck the blood out of any gossip that comes about, or any boy that shows them the slightest bit of attention. I’ll draw the table of hypoglycemic old women, too insulin-heavy to be eating so much glucose, picking over each other’s corpses with their bifocals perched on the tips of their noses. I continue with these drawings until I get bored or until my manager, Peter, tells me to get back to work.
Oh God. Peter, how could I forget? Peter is this red headed asshole who thinks running a Noodles is the most important job in the world. For my whole first month of work this jack-off would make me measure and weigh each individual ingredient of any salad. Yeah. Fucking exactly three ounces of cucumbers or whatever the hell it was. I mean this guys a total joke. I guess he used to manage a Panera. Go figure. I bet he got fired for freaking out on a little blonde girl for putting two tablespoons of cream cheese on someone’s bagel rather than one and a half. Sometimes I plot ways to get him fired. Maybe I’ll pass him in a way that his hand may swipe against the ass of my jeans. I could totally file sexual harassment. Man. Sometimes I wonder why I put up with all this shit. I mean, the money is great and it definitely helps, but having to go through this circle of hell every day after having been put the it’s predecessor, wealthy suburban high school. Man. This fuckin’ sucks.