Washed Up

“Name, date of birth, social,” he says, while haphazardly pulling a piece of paper out from under the register. “Do I really have to give my social?”

He sighs and looks up at me from the slightly-crumpled application sheet as if I’m already ruining his entire day.

“It’s on the sheet.”

“I mean, it’s a 7/11 applic-” I laugh a bit awkwardly.

“Fine.” he crosses something out, “Prior work experience.”

“Um, none.”

“None at all?”

“I was a, uh, youtuber?”

At this, I’ve suddenly caught his attention, and his eyes light up with that 17-year-old-bully look of Yes, an opportunity to humiliate! I already feel myself regretting giving this truth so easily.

“No way. What kind of videos? You play games or something? How many subscribers you got?”

“Uh, commentary? And I used to do like, challenges and stuff. Cinnamon challenge, tide pods, that sort of thing. Had like, I don’t know, 1 million, or something,” I rounded up more than a bit.

“Oh.. right. What’s your channel name?”

And I was caught in the lie. I gave up the channel name, which he briefly checked on his phone, and let out a stifled laugh that didn’t seem like he tried too hard to control.

“So, why are you here then?” he asks, a slight dig. I’m sure he knows exactly why, and so I simply shrug it off and say “Bills.”

From there the humiliation ritual slows down, as he checks some boxes on the application. I shift between my feet, suddenly feeling very large. I feel as though I am a giant in a tiny box of a store, towering over the register and aisles.

“So, when can you start training?” he says.

“Um, I can start now, I guess?”

He nods, and walks me through the register. I’m not really paying attention. Instead, I’m watching an old woman count her coins in the corner and wondering where everything had gone wrong? And was that my fate in front of me? Sad, washed up, and pulling pennies out of a coin bag? After a while, the woman walks up to the register with two cases of beer and a wad of cash. He scans them, and puts them in a bag.

“Big party tonight?” I joke, and the woman gives me an odd look.

“Every Friday, for 30 years, hon” she says, and I watch her walk out with a case under each arm. Thirty years. And here I am, wondering if the 17 year old gas station employee thinks I’m washed up.