I swear to God, if you don’t get the fuck away from me, I’m going to do something you’re gonna regret.
I tried my best not to pay any mind to the dancing man at the end of the aisle. Taking my time restocking the shelves with brand new wine bottles that arrived today, each bottle clinking as the glass hits one another, I made it my mission not to give this man any of my time or attention when I was actually trying to work.
* * * * *
I sped down the bustling city streets at twenty miles an hour on my electric scooter, making sharp, hard turns onto new streets and even more traffic, openly ignoring red lights if I knew I’d make it, and yelling at pedestrians to move when they proudly stood in the bike lane. Along the way, while I stopped at a red light that was too packed with cars to pass, I chatted with a biker. Turns out he was preparing himself for the upcoming city triathlon, and that he was biking for the last two hours nonstop.
He pointed down and my eyes followed, noticing his bulging thigh resting on the bike peddle. My eyes widened when I saw the massive vein protruding from the side, ready to burst if I poked it with my fingernail.
“Well goddamn,” I said in awe. “This must what the body looks like when you’re training for something so intense.”
The man laughed with pride, flexing his thigh, “Two-hour bike rides every day for the last seven years. My legs are more ripped than a body builder’s arm.”
It looks like it’s filled with more steroids, too, I thought.
We both looked up and saw the bike lane was green. The traffic moved enough to allow bikers to continue their journey.
The biker looked at me and nodded before speeding off, “Good luck out there.”
Before I got a chance to reply, the man started peddling and picked up speed, racing off like a car.
“Right,” I mumbled as I got back on my scooter and continued my trip through the city.
After narrowly avoiding traffic and cursing out a pedestrian for more dumb antics, I turned the last corner and slowly came to a stop, parking myself in front of my destination. I looked up at the giant black and white sign nailed up to the store front, and sighed.
“‘Welcome to Angler Avenue Wines.’ More like ‘Welcome to hell.’”
I couldn’t help but groan when I brought my scooter up onto the street, approaching the door to the wine store. I grabbed the metal handle and tugged, but the door barely budged. I knocked on the large, glass window of the door, hoping it would be loud enough to grab somebody’s attention on the inside. Not before long, I saw a head pop out from the main office at the back of the store. Only a couple of lights were on, so I couldn’t get a clear view of who was approaching.
However, once I saw that the person was skipping their way towards the door, I instantly knew who it was.
Oh, fuck no, it’s Carl.
There has been too many mornings when I had to start with this supervisor, the weird and annoying one. Most people complain about supervisors, bosses, and higher ups who are just a hard person to get along with or are lazy and takes all the credit for other people’s works. But me? My supervisor likes to act like a child running around in a candy store flailing his arms around and making random noises right next to you. A supervisor is suppose to demonstrate maturity, professionalism, and the ability to act like an adult when needed.
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