Ruby Slippers

by a 3rd floor student

I walk away from my blue car (her name is Lola) and out of the loud music she made from the inside. I always love to hear her voice. She never stops singing the songs that I like. I put my hat on once, but that’s never enough. I have to slip it on two or three times to make sure nothing is fighting its way out of the back. I always step as if I have somewhere to go, like someone on a mission. My friends yell at me for my long stride. The door to my workplace is heavy every time I open it. Once I get inside, I almost run away from the eyes in the sea of formica and ugly maroon carpet, and I turn to walk through the door directly on the left. It doesn’t have a handle or anything. I imagine that it’s like one of those saloon doors from the old movies. When I get inside, the people are more like cowboys than coworkers. Some are friendly; they smile and say howdy- others just spit and nod. Looking at the schedule, I see that I’m supposed to work at the register tonight.

Marching to the register, I punch in the four numbers that make it happy. 3965. The last four digits to my social security number. It replies only with a slip of paper, and waits for another dance. I guess that’s the easiest thing to compare it to. A sort of dance. And like a good dancing instructor, it lets you know if your tango is sloppy. Something cryptic just pops up on the screen like,

*CALL MANAGER*

I always find that a little patronizing. Half of the time I’m supposed to

*CALL MANAGER*

I can just figure it out myself by pressing VOID and then moving from there- it’s a little insulting. All during this awkward dance it just beeps complacently. Everything here beeps. The chicken is beeping. My intuition tells me that the food itself is beeping. The fries scream to be taken out of the greasy vat and into a big metal bin exactly 3 minutes after they went into aforementioned vat. Something beeps all the time- begging to be removed, turned, wiped, sanitized, pulverized, and reconstituted.

“Will this be for here or to go?”

Good God. Did she just consume a Buick? She looks clogged. Sherry has white hair cut almost as butch as the lesbian who lives next door to me. Of course, she doesn’t swing that way. The lord eats the souls that swing that way, and spits them up into the fry vat of hell. I have a suspicion that the Buick has settled into her ass. It’s difficult for her to walk without the momentum of it pulling her from side to side. She eats here most every night. Sherry works at Systemsoft®- as a courtesy caller. Not a good one either. Her salary is barely enough to pay for the Astroturf-with-daisy door mat and quilted tissue box cover that I know she will buy. Despite numerous magazine subscriptions, Ed McMahan doesn’t love Sherry enough to give her one million dollars. At the homliest 35 years of age you can imagine, Sherry is still a virgin. She orders her meal like a pit bull on morphine. I can see the look in her eyes- waiting, intimidating. She would live a fulfilling day if I would just give her the wrong order. The anger and bitterness I could cause would be the orgasm she needed. Her frustration would climax onto the counter in violent waves and fumigate the area in the stench of a life poorly spent; but the hate would still be there. I’m not one for masochism, so I just give her what she wants and let it keep brewing. She glares at me in spite of my accuracy. I think Sherry needs a hug.

As Sherry disdainfully walks away, I’m unnecessarily shocked at the new set of eyes staring up in me. Those big blue eyes as deep as the ocean with peaks frosted carefully in icy blue lacquer can only belong to only one person. Of course, that can really be said about any eyes, if you look at them long enough. The longer I look at these, the less and less I see. The eyes nevertheless belong to Laura Leanne Talmadge. She drives a brand new red mustang that flies by like blood from an exit wound. Her lips are like rubies, and if actions are words, I’d say most people would agree that they’re worth as much, too. And those beautiful, cherishable lips had touched more other lips, suckled more keg taps, and made more contact with rather undignified living objects than I care to speak of. The smell of sex and strawberry lip gloss overcomes me.

Through this toxic haze I see Sarah Morris, smiling in the background. She’s the girl that’s always in the background. The perfectly embossed cocktail napkin under your strawberry daiquiri. The one who’s plain looks and curly hair are the pedestal for Laura’s sinful features and golden tresses to stand high upon. Her ignorance as to her place in life is suddenly a universal tragedy. I deliberately look at her and pay as little attention as possible to the blonde beast who had passed before her. She blushes as I take her order. And then they are gone. I glance into the next hour and see as Sarah is crushed in Laura’s wake once again. I wonder what she’ll feel like dying under the black tread of Laura’s blood-red mustang.

The manager is calling my name. She must have heard the ringing in my ears, because she decided to give me a break. I take with me a cup of Dr Pepper and some french fries. I’m consumed in heat as I pass all of the cooking elements and boiling grease. My feet sink into the red carpet so meaningfully as I leave the kitchen and head for the door. Treading through the red moss I look out into the crowd of seated customers and see the faces of jungle creatures. They are spotted, crowned, feathered, and scaled. As I exit the glass door I feel dejected as the presence of such a fierce group is replaced with asphalt valleys and abandoned vehicles. I go to sit on Lola, as I always do, and wonder what just happened. I think of how strange life is, inhaling a drag from my lighted cigarette. I look perplexedly down at my black shiny shoes, exhaling a fog of delirium. They remind me of ruby slippers. I click my heels three times.