The day started out innocently enough. I got up and left the house before I was truly awake, dropped the b.h. at work and proceeded to work myself. I finished my coffee just before I arrived and had my breakfast (yogurt and granola) when I got there. I still wasn't awake. By eleven o'clock we had only had about five or six customers. It was probably sixty degrees outside, but inside the store couldn't have been over fifty. I could not get warm. I paced around and looked for things to do. I skipped through radio stations on the Sirius XM thingie, trying to find something upbeat and not Billy Joel. There was a lot of Billy Joel. My co-worker Clay was enjoying it. He is not shy about singing out loud, which I find unusual for a country boy his age, but it is still new enough that I find it amusing. I put up some wine. I rearranged some stuff on shelves. I went next door for coffee. It warmed me up a little. Still the day dragged on relentlessly.
Natasha arrived at around twelve. I had been there for almost three hours, but it seemed like forever. She went to get lunch, which she was nice enough to split with me. Grilled fresh mozzarella and tomato with basil and pesto on pannini. Clay went to the hardware store, and when he came back he started replacing rood shingles. The smell of tar permeated the store. The few customers we had all remarked on it.
"It smells like gas," said one woman.
"Yes, he is tarring roof," said Natasha, in her heavily accented English.
"It smells like gas."
Natasha looked at me and rolled her eyes.
Later, we were outside. Natasha smoked while I stood and watched, trying to clear my head for a few minutes with fresh air. A man in a truck pulled up. He got out and went into the store, so I followed.
"Sorry about that smell," I said. "We're repairing the roof. The smell of the tar is killing me. I guess we should leave that door open."
"You're probably smelling gas. I have it all over me."
It did not occur to me to ask why he was covered in gas.
"Actually, now that you mention it, I do smell gas. It's a step up form the tar, though, so it isn't bothering me."
Later Clay came back in, his hands thick with mucky black tar. He was carrying an empty half pint bottle. Everclear.
"Is that your shift drink?" asked Natasha.
"Naw, man, I had to use it to get the rest of the tar off. Shit, I don't need a drink. I'm higher than a kite."
She looked at him quizzically for a moment, and then smirked and nodded in understanding. "If the boss come back, he's goeen to lock himself in back there."
A short while later, an older woman in large puffy white gym shoes came in. She poked her head around the corner, smiled briefly at us, and then turned her back and went toward the wine section. She was rummaging around in Rieslings before Natasha could get around the counter to help her. In fact, by the time Natasha had got to her, she had already pulled a very pricey bottle from an upper shelf (the shelf right above the sign that reads "Please ask for assistance with wines on upper shelves").
"Do you have another one like this?"
Natasha had taken the bottle from her and was inspecting the label when two more bottles came crashing down - on her head. I heard the crash, and before I could register what had even happened I saw Natasha, bent at the waist with both hands on her head, stumbling around. Clay got there first.
"It wasn't me! I didn't do it!" shouted the woman, in the manner of one who it had been and who had, in fact, done it.
I ignored her and instructed Clay to clean up the glass. Other customers had arrived, and while I was ringing them out I was ordering Natasha to sit down and Clay to get her some ice. While I was ringing up the last waiting customer, the woman who caused the whole thing poked her head around the corner again.
"I wasn't going to buy anything today anyway. I'll just come back."
I glared at her and didn't respond. She practically ran out. Stupid cow. Once I had finished with the other customers, I went over to inspect Natasha's foot, which had been hit just after her head. It probably kept the second bottle from breaking. It was swollen. So was her head.
The last hour was spent arguing with Natasha about whether or not she should drive (obviously not), whether she would go to the ER (not a chance), and what might happen if you drink alcohol with a concussion. In the end her stubbornness won out, and now all I can do is call her every once in awhile to make sure she isn't passed out. So far so good. Man, I'm glad this day is almost over.
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