Go fuck yourself.
That was the look on Brandy’s face.
Jesus, she hated dealing with these kids. She wished she had that two-by-four. Right now, she wanted nothing more than to bash in Erica’s pretty little face.
The gold chain called to Brandy, from her neck. The same simple gold chain her mother had passed to her when she was a little girl.
Momma Ashton-on her deathbed, dying of cancer-had passed the heirloom to her only daughter the way her mother, and her grandmother, and her great-grandmother had done generations past, all the way down the family line, to the very first Ashtons that had settled in the northeast (what possessed them to move and settle in Arizona, she would never understand).
When the first Ashtons arrived penniless in America, they kept the gold chain no matter the indigence or hardship, as a symbol of providence, and reminder that fortunes were made through diligence and hard work.
Brandy stormed off, so furious she wanted to cry.
No one looking, she stroked the gold chain and felt better. Stroking the thin gold chain always had a calming, soothing effect. There was nothing she would not do to protect that chain, to keep it in the family, in the hopes of one day passing the heirloom to her own daughter.
On her way through the winding maze, Brandy spied a fat woman with long hair down to her hips, long denim dress down past her knees. The woman was asking one of the employees for help.
He told her he would be along to help her in a minute.
Then he turned his back on her to answer his cell phone.
His name was Mark, according to his nametag-another punk kid: no surprise there. Whether his thin beard growing in patches was the result of a recent choice to grow one, or because he was still too young, she wasn’t sure.
No, she decided, it was because he was still too young.
Frustrated, the poor lady walked away. Brandy followed her out of the maze, into the warehouse. Waiting at one of the bins was the woman’s fat mother.
Why were there so many fat people in America, Brandy wondered?
Together, they tried unsuccessfully removing one of the giant boxes from the bin.
As they did, a man passed by with a cart, said, “Need some help? Here, let me help you with that.”
He was late thirties, Brandy guessed. Not much older than her, and handsome. The ladies thanked him-bless his heart, they said. They cautioned him against straining his back.
“No problem,” he smiled.
Bless his heart, they said.
The kid’s phone call was more important than doing his job.
Thank you for doing Ikea’s job, because that is the level of professionalism you can expect from Ikea.
So go fuck yourself Ikea! Fuck you in the ass!
Brandy stopped the rant playing in her mind.
Stroking her gold chain, she felt better.
*****
Twenty minutes late, the #65 bus still had not arrived. Brandy stroked her gold chain. She hated waiting on the bus almost as much as she hated dealing with punk kids. She wondered what more could go wrong today? When would the day end?
She looked to all the Marks, the Ericas, crowded at the bus stop. Badly, she wanted to whack them with her shopping bag.
They gossiped about Justin Bieber’s love child; the latest Twilight film. How Lady Gaga’s keen fashion sense, latest fashion statements, were all the rave:
I’m team Jacob!
I’m team Edward!
How a meat dress was so nouveau- risqué.
Jesus Christ! When was the fucking bus coming?
Then-salvation! The bus appeared around the corner. It rumbled up the street and, with whining airbrakes and long hiss of air, slowed at the bus stop.
Brandy sighed, grateful the noise had severed the grape vine, put a stop to the buzzing rumor mill. She was amazed how animated, fast-talking, these kids could be in the unbearable heat.
Obnoxiously, one of the Erica’s said, “Hello? Do you mind?”
The bus doors had opened, Brandy realized. She was blocking the way.
All the Marks, the Ericas, shoved past. Brandy quietly boarded onto the bus, with the rest of the adults.
With disgusted but resigned looks, they quietly boarded. Obediently they fed their money to the money feeder while the kids continued their inane gossiping.
