The next day, there’s a clean-up on aisle three where some dumbass kid dropped a jar of pickles, shattering the glass and spilling foul-smelling juice all over the floor. I have the Wet Floor signs up and a huge trashcan beside me as I squat down to sweep the mess into a dustpan. People can see I’m busy here, but I swear every customer wants to push a basket down the aisle anyway, knocking into my signs and trailing pickle juice everywhere. The place f*****g reeks of this s**t—it’s in my nose, in my eyes…I can’t even breathe because it burns my throat. Today’s not going to be a good day, I just know it.
I hate pickles.
I feel someone’s foot nudge mine and I whirl around, so ready to go off.
Can’t you see I’m working here? I want to say. It’s on the tip of my tongue and I don’t care i
