Welcome to DQ, How Can I Help You?

I come home from work and sometimes wonder if I'm a dangerous person. One of those people that you hear about on the news - a person that snaps and commits some heinous crime, having something to do with their job and their co-workers. A postal service worker...only, in my case, an eighteen-year-old girl working customer service and making ice cream treats at Dairy Queen.

Could there be anything worse? And yet, from an outside view, I have one of the best jobs in the world. All day I'm surrounded by milk shakes, brownies, candy bars, root beer floats, and french fries. In other words, I work in the dreams of a kindergartner.

I am a saint. I am a living, breathing fairy godmother. I take orders without question and I serve the scum of the earth, all while looking cute in my khaki shorts and a ponytail. And I do it with a goddamn smile. And I don't complain about the close-toed shoes I'm forced to wear. Someone owes me big time.

There's a woman that comes through the drive through and orders a triple cheeseburger and a large fry, with a large diet coke. I am not sure if this woman is wearing pants. But I am sure this woman doesn't understand the concept of a diet drink. As I load her half-pound burger and her sea of fries into a crinkling paper bag, I smile at her...and inconspicuously glance toward where her pants should be. I am repulsed...but I must know if she's going starkers. Her dirty nascar shirt reaches down toward her knees, saving her last shred of respectability and chastity like an overly protective virgin nursemaid. If I had more time to investigate, I might. I do not. I hand out the bag, choosing to live in the dark. Maybe there are mysteries in the world that shouldn't be solved.

Later in the night, as I clean off one of the many cold-looking stainless steel counters, I turn as I feel something lightly brushing my hindquarters. There stands my co-worker, Aaron, in all of his sickly glory. Aaron has touched my ass. I have no doubts when it comes to this matter. He's working on some small, meaningless project of one form or another, as always. Is he pretending not to notice that I'm looking at him, or is he actually lavishing his full attention on freeing the oreo crumb build up from between the keys of the cash register because he wants to, because he really cares? Does he truly not know the offense he's committed? And if he doesn't know what he's done...did he do it sub-consciously because of some kind of odd Freudian-style slip? Did he want to touch my ass? Did his hand reach out because somewhere deep in his mind, he wishes his ass looked like mine?

"Aaron."

They're possibly the first two syllables I've granted him all night, and he turns like an overly eager puppy at this gift - nay, this honor - that I've given him. He waits with baited breath for me to continue, and I have to suppress my overly active gag reflex as he, seemingly without noticing, relieves himself of a wedgie AND scratches his crotch at the same time. Being the charming creature that he is, I cannot allow him to wait any longer for more words to fall from my demigodess-like (or, as Dairy Queen would title this position, shift manager) mouth. I blurt out the first thing that pops into my head, picturing those words in bright, vibrant colors scrolling marquee-style inside my cranium so as to relieve myself of the scarring image I'd just been subjected to.

"Go on your break...Right now. Don't wait for Jarrel to get back."

Aaron bounces on the balls of his feet at the prospect of the fifteen minutes of down time and scuttles toward the ice cream machine like a hermit crab, quick to make himself a treat that spills out of the cup and over his stubby fingers, smudging on his shirt and overly-thick arm hair in the process. I'm not excited to have to see the dried-on confection for the rest of the night, but being as he's happy and he's leaving, I decide not to worry about it for the time being. He punches out and makes his grand exit. The hell beast has been driven away. I am at peace, if only for a moment.

When I go to take a drink from my water glass, I suck something through the straw. Something that's not water. I now have some foreign object in my mouth, and I wonder if I should spit it out. Then I wonder if that would violate health regulations. But I don't care. I spit it out anyway. Something the color of a booger and the consistency of glue sits in my hand. Was this a trick played by that huge leprechaun-boy working in the kitchen? Was this a plot made by my manager? Is she trying to kill me? I imagine so. I also imagine the piece of glue smiling at me, taking on a cheeky personality. The glue was happy to be an accomplice in the joke...or the poisoning (whichever it may be). I'll know later tonight. If I die, I'll know it wasn't a joke.

I work with a woman who looks like a gremlin. Every day she stands behind the counter, a devious smile etched upon her face, and I know. I know that she's plotting something. Her ears, which taper up and off ever so slightly, seem to wiggle with the anticipation of some horrendous deed. Maybe she's been sent to earth to exploit humans or destroy the rain forest. Maybe she's been sent to Dairy Queen to kill me. Maybe it was her that put the glue in my water.

She sneaks around the building and surprises me when I'm carrying messy or potentially dangerous objects (such as gallons of strawberries or utensils from the kitchen that have pointy, hazardous edges). I think this is a game for her, because I feel the aura of self-satisfaction radiating from her when I feel inclined to drop something out of fear as she pops up from one of Dairy Queen's many crevices (some of which, I am sure, are portals that lead to Earth from the fiery pits of hell). And, though this is a great passion of hers, it is not her favorite pastime. In fact, there is one thing that the gremlin enjoys doing ever so much more.

When I'm hassled or stressed, the gremlin, above all, likes to tell me that I've done something terribly wrong. She revels in telling me that I've made a mistake, and unfortunately there's probably no way that she, my manager, or the Dairy Queen corporation will ever be able to fix my unimaginable and completely irresponsible error. In fact - because of my flawed coffee-making skills, or my non-DQ-procedure style of making dilly bars, it seems, Dairy Queen is ruined. Forever.

[ to be finished at a later date. ]