(no subject)
Since i'm at work, bored, and everything is going swimmingly well at the moment, here's a short story that I wrote a while ago that at least some of you have seen.
I had a hangover.
The words had ingrained themselves in my thought process, bouncing back and forth off the walls of my skull like a game of squash played by 2 gorillas in a brass amphitheatre.
I had a hangover.
It wasn’t just any old hangover either - this was one of those special hangovers where your head felt like a docking point for freight trains that frequently derailed. At the same time any loud noise would send reverberations off in my head that would leave me subdued with pain for the next few minutes.
I had a hangover.
I was snapped to life by the yells of my manager. As they became clearer I realised I’d once again burnt the meat. He waved his hands in dismay before returning to the front to serve the customers waiting to get their weekend grease fill.
The night before was something of a blur and my memories of it were vague and dotted with holes like a poorly cut slice of Swiss cheese. I remember arriving, opening the first beer and loud music. It gets pretty sparse after that.
I flipped the burger onto the awaiting bun and remembered the order from my training (if a 2 hour introduction can indeed be titled as such). Meat, pickles, sauce and onions on the bottom before mayo, lettuce and tomato on top. My co-worker Jess grabbed the burger from me, knowing full well that I wrapped burgers at the speed of an arthritic pensioner.
For the first time in recent memory I was happy to be on dishwashing duty. I zoned out completely, overfilled the sinks and got to work scrubbing the greasy trays and sauce bottles, caring little that my decision to not wear gloves would leave my hands red raw for the remainder of the day. I dragged the 15-minute job out to well over half an hour and departed for my break.
I went to the staff area, slipped a jumper on and wandered out to the street looking like an extra from Night of the Living Dead. I squinted into the sunlight and began my ritual 2-block walk where the salvation of caffeine awaited me.
As I seated myself at the café the waitress walked up to me, looking nearly as displeased with her chosen line of work as I was. “A long black, heavy on the black” I remarked with a halfhearted smile. She raised an eyebrow and looked as if there was something dangerously wrong with me, scribbled something down and retreated inside.
I laid back in my chair and watched the passing cars. An old couple, a young man with his music too loud, a 30-something year old (obviously well past his prime) wearing a Ramones jacket and…there she was.
Her name was Rachel. Thoughts flooded back to me from the night before. We’d talked early in the party before her friends arrived, and had met briefly later at night when the air had cooled and the mood had calmed. We came together in a mess of tongues, teenage awkwardness and a whole other bunch of things that I can’t describe eloquently. She was the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen, and before now I thought she was well and truly out of the picture after last night. I’d had something itching at my mind all day, apart from the hangover, and I now realised what it was, a longing to see this girl (the only girl I’d been remotely close to in a long while) and try to reignite the spark that’d formed the night before.
As I rose I noticed another figure in the car. I raised a hand to wave at her before she turned to her left and moved her head towards the person in the seat next to her. As the lights changed I saw their lips part and a young man with black hair sitting beside her.
I was dejected and crushed like I hadn’t been for a long time. It was going to be a bad day, somehow worse than previously thought. I slumped into my chair, collected my coffee from the surly looking waiter and returned to my meaningful train of thought, the small men with jackhammers still eagerly at work on my forehead.
I had a hangover.
I'm off to Queensland on Friday. I'll be sorely missed, I know.
I had a hangover.
The words had ingrained themselves in my thought process, bouncing back and forth off the walls of my skull like a game of squash played by 2 gorillas in a brass amphitheatre.
I had a hangover.
It wasn’t just any old hangover either - this was one of those special hangovers where your head felt like a docking point for freight trains that frequently derailed. At the same time any loud noise would send reverberations off in my head that would leave me subdued with pain for the next few minutes.
I had a hangover.
I was snapped to life by the yells of my manager. As they became clearer I realised I’d once again burnt the meat. He waved his hands in dismay before returning to the front to serve the customers waiting to get their weekend grease fill.
The night before was something of a blur and my memories of it were vague and dotted with holes like a poorly cut slice of Swiss cheese. I remember arriving, opening the first beer and loud music. It gets pretty sparse after that.
I flipped the burger onto the awaiting bun and remembered the order from my training (if a 2 hour introduction can indeed be titled as such). Meat, pickles, sauce and onions on the bottom before mayo, lettuce and tomato on top. My co-worker Jess grabbed the burger from me, knowing full well that I wrapped burgers at the speed of an arthritic pensioner.
For the first time in recent memory I was happy to be on dishwashing duty. I zoned out completely, overfilled the sinks and got to work scrubbing the greasy trays and sauce bottles, caring little that my decision to not wear gloves would leave my hands red raw for the remainder of the day. I dragged the 15-minute job out to well over half an hour and departed for my break.
I went to the staff area, slipped a jumper on and wandered out to the street looking like an extra from Night of the Living Dead. I squinted into the sunlight and began my ritual 2-block walk where the salvation of caffeine awaited me.
As I seated myself at the café the waitress walked up to me, looking nearly as displeased with her chosen line of work as I was. “A long black, heavy on the black” I remarked with a halfhearted smile. She raised an eyebrow and looked as if there was something dangerously wrong with me, scribbled something down and retreated inside.
I laid back in my chair and watched the passing cars. An old couple, a young man with his music too loud, a 30-something year old (obviously well past his prime) wearing a Ramones jacket and…there she was.
Her name was Rachel. Thoughts flooded back to me from the night before. We’d talked early in the party before her friends arrived, and had met briefly later at night when the air had cooled and the mood had calmed. We came together in a mess of tongues, teenage awkwardness and a whole other bunch of things that I can’t describe eloquently. She was the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen, and before now I thought she was well and truly out of the picture after last night. I’d had something itching at my mind all day, apart from the hangover, and I now realised what it was, a longing to see this girl (the only girl I’d been remotely close to in a long while) and try to reignite the spark that’d formed the night before.
As I rose I noticed another figure in the car. I raised a hand to wave at her before she turned to her left and moved her head towards the person in the seat next to her. As the lights changed I saw their lips part and a young man with black hair sitting beside her.
I was dejected and crushed like I hadn’t been for a long time. It was going to be a bad day, somehow worse than previously thought. I slumped into my chair, collected my coffee from the surly looking waiter and returned to my meaningful train of thought, the small men with jackhammers still eagerly at work on my forehead.
I had a hangover.
I'm off to Queensland on Friday. I'll be sorely missed, I know.