Of course, working office and retail jobs at the same time should provide a rather unique perspective on the two, although I’m fairly certain that the contrast is just going to make the Shitty Retail Job that much shittier.

We shall see.

There are times, however, when I can’t help but cringe, e.g., the woman I just helped at work who, in leaving the store, managed to set off the door chime twice while walking through it. She was pleasant enough of a woman to work with, but I can’t help but be amused that the door sensor detected her as two people.

I think that might make me a bad person.

• There are individuals who do not know how to address a letter for mailing. I’m talking about people who have lived here their whole lives and regularly complain about foreigners, and not members of the sizable immigrant population.
• The number of genuinely crazy religious nuts per square mile is far higher than casual observation would predict. Mana from heaven.
• Do not Google the regulars. You’ll end up discovering that some of them run BBW appreciation and escort sites on the side.
• Certify or register all important mail. I’m in San Diego, and our store has received bills and letters bearing out of state addresses.
• People are psychic. This is the only explanation for why some people come in to hold up a piece of paper and point at it, expecting me to just know that it’s to be photocopied, notarized, and overnighted to rural Texas.

I’m tired of talking about the store so much, but I’m here for something like 34 hours a week while pursuing real jobs. It’s only natural that one’s job becomes a point of conversation, as depressing as it might be. Maybe I should just take a few weeks off and drive to New Mexico or something.

Then she started bringing cards up to the register, one by one, and read them to me.

She was making copies of a fitness article for her husband and we ended up talking about health in general, how little decisions every day can add up. There was an earnestness to her that unnerved me, though. She seemed to be almost too single-minded, devoting everything she had in that head of hers to the conversation. Eyes a little too wide. Leaning in just a bit too close. It wasn’t until she started fixating on just how young she thought I looked that those tiny little warning flags began to rise. She leaned in and with an unnecessary intensity emphasized to me how, in the end, it was faith in our lord Jesus who is also the Christ that can keep us healthy.

I guess Jesus provides a good cardiovascular workout, but the only way I can imagine somebody being responsible for said workout is a bit blasphemous.

A little boy urinating himself in the store was also involved, albeit tangentially.

A little while ago two sheriff’s deputies came in asking after somebody, Jane Doe, who was receiving mail at the store. They needed to drop off a summons. The box in question, though, was technically not hers any more. She was moving out of state and hadn’t renewed it. As a favor she was allowed to receive the remainder of her mail here until she left, but the box wasn’t actually hers anymore.

The sheriffs, when informed that she was moving out of state in a few days, were a little surprised. In the end they didn’t leave the summons because they could only drop it off at a legal and official point of contact.

An elderly man came in, smelling strongly of fried chicken and mumbling to himself while pulling a folded slip of paper from his wallet. I gathered that he wanted some copies made, but then he started to say “onion skin” to me repeatedly, how he needed the copies on onion skin for his body, onion skin.

Onion skin!

All I could assume was that “onion skin” was a thin sort of paper, kind of like vellum or something. I told the man that we didn’t have that here, and that the Kinko’s across the way might be a better bet. He thanked me and started talking about how he needed copies on onion skin for his body. It had to do with god, you see! In the sky!

That was when he actually started talking about fried chicken and wandered away.