"Writing About Place"

“Christi! Hey, Christi! Wait up!”
Go away… Go away… Go away, I thought, legs gliding in a quickened pace.
“CHRISTI!!”
Giving up on the chase, I turned around. “Oh… Hey James, I didn’t hear you…” James ran over to give me yet another hug. Why does he insist on molesting me every time I get to work? Its not even a hug, he’s just looking for a good chance to feel me up before I clock in.
I have mixed feelings about Target. I walk through the door and smile or wave at my co-workers, get sexually harassed by James, etc. The minute those automatic doors open after jumping around in front of the sensor (beginning to question whether or not our “maintenance guy” is really a “maintenance guy” bearing in mind nothing’s ever running up to speed..) you get the smell of coffee, popcorn, and photo lab chemicals thrown at you like a cinderblock to the face.
Blenders vrooming in Starbucks, pots and pans crashing into the sink in Food Ave, kids crying because they didn’t get the color iPod they wanted, the remainder of people shouting over the noise. After two years of that, you learn to love it.
“Hey, Booger Honey,” I heard once I reached my little Starbucks counter. The area’s small but cozy to work in. All you have to do is take one step left to get to the pastries, a small shimmy right to reach the espresso machine.
“Hi, Jayme,” I replied in my fake-enthusiastic/ way-too-happy-to-be-real voice. She wouldn’t know the difference; I’ve been doing it from the beginning. Jayme’s the boss lady. She’s a teeny-tiny Hawaiian/Hispanic lady, late twenties, who likes to tell everyone she’s ghetto fabulous. Her long, moussed, curly black hair is always fluffed into a high ponytail, and eyebrows drawn-on in a perfect arch. Her gold bangles jingle while she steams milk and pulls espresso shots.
I tied my (used to be) green apron around me, glaring down at the chocolate and whipped cream splotches. Some think it’s kinky. I think washing it the previous night should have been on the to-do list. Heading to the sink to wash my hands, Jayme eagerly described the attractive “Street Pharmacist” she met at a bar. Seven hours and fifty minutes to go.