On Target

We work at the same store, in the same job of cashier, just lanes apart, and yet we are so different.

As for me, I do my job: nothing more and nothing less. I am the model employee. You, on the other hand, are something I hate. You are a dreamer.

I see you during the lulls in the crowds, sighing and staring up at the ceiling, seeming like you want to be somewhere else. Well, I want to be somewhere else too, but you don't see me just standing there thinking about it. I do my job. Sometimes you're so lost in your thoughts you don't even notice a customer standing there impatiently waiting to be rung up. It's a wonder you haven't been fired yet.

And it's a good thing you aren't fired. Barely managing to get a high school diploma and dropping out of community college after two weeks doesn't get a person very far. I don't even know what you think you'd do, but you think there is something else you'd rather be doing. How do you think that's even possible? How are you going to make a difference, change the world, do something exciting if you couldn't even stick around for community college. Sure, high school is enough for some people, but those people have no right to be dreamers.

Sometimes you even feel compelled to share your fantasies with me, as if I care. I guess I'm just a pretty face to look at while you drone on, because you can't possibly think I believe in you. Surely you can tell my smile is forced and notice when I wince in pain at the sound of your optimistic voice. Half the time I don't even know what the hell you're talking about, speaking of cures for this and hope for these people and preserving that. Why do you even bother? Someone might solve these problems or accomplish these feats, but I'd bet my life it isn't going to be you. No matter how much time you spend dreaming, you aren't going to spending any time becoming anything. In fact, the more time you spend dreaming, the less time you have to even do anything remotely related to accomplishing the things you say you are going to.

If I cared about you even remotely, I'd tell you to be more like me. Focused on the day to day and on doing your freaking job. Stop fooling yourself and just live with what's been given to you. If you could do more, fine, but you can't. You are incapable of being any more that a simple check out girl and a hopeless, senseless dreamer. If I cared enough, I would tell you these things, but I don't. The most I might ever do is tell you to leave me the heck alone.

I suppose I don't even tell you that because you're the closest thing I have to a friend, even though you do annoy the crap out of me. Even though I can't wait to go home every day and get away from you, I still don't want you to think I'm a bitch, which I'm sure you would if I told you what I really think, even though you're much too pure-minded to actually use such a word. If nothing else your day-dreaming ineptitude makes me look better. I'm sure you'll never get a raise. I've already gotten two in the seven years I've been working here.

Now don't get me wrong, I have a few dreams myself, but I don't clutter the work day with them, and I don't make them unattainable. Owning a pet that doesn't annoy the crap out of me: that's one of my dreams. Working at a higher class establishment than the crap hole that currently employees us, maybe something like a JC Penny, that's another dream, something I might actually accomplish if I work on my people skills a little. But come to think of it, it's not really worth it. You really don't have to be that polite to work these check out lines. People who come here are basically trash anyway. Maybe that's why they keep you on: you fit in with the crowds.

So go ahead, keep on dreaming, and see if I care. One day you'll realize what a fool you'll being. And when your poor little heart that longs for something more but can't get your brain to do anything about it finally gives way, I'll go to you're funeral and I'll laugh a sad laugh because in spite of all of this, I know that you could have at least a slightly better life than you do now if you'd just stop dreaming about a much better life that will never come to be.

Success

Emilia blinked once, twice, and then a third time, just to make sure she was really seeing what she thought she was seeing. Once her little eyes and tiny five-year-old hands confirmed it to be true, she let out a squeal of happiness and her short, blond girls began to merrily bounce up and down. Her lips spread into a smile of glee and she clapped her palms together in joy. It may not have seemed like much to anyone else, but to this girl, to this blissful, mesmerized girl, it was her life's first major success.

"Mommie, mommie, come see," the little girl cried out, rushing to the desk where her light-haired mother sat, pouring over legal briefs. "Come see what I did."

"Not now sweetie," the woman responded, shooing her away with the pen she held in her left hand, not even bothering to glance away from her work. "Mommy is busy."

The small, round girl opened her mouth to protest, but stopped before any words could escape. Even for one so young, she knew when she wasn't wanted, and this particular little girl got this particular feeling around her mother all too often. She stuck out her lip in a pouty manner she knew her mother wouldn't see and turned and walked away.

"Just give mommy a few more minutes," the woman mumbled.

But her daughter was already gone, silvery tears sliding silently down her cheeks as she crept into her large but lonely bedroom. All the joy in the world meant nothing to this poor little rich girl if her mother didn't care to share it with her.