Have you ever noticed how much you can tell about a person from their grocery shopping? Who’s on a diet, who’s having a party, who’s budgeting. It’s always fun at the beginning of a new year, because everyone is sticking to their resolutions and drinking wheat grass juice with sticks of celery so they don’t break the inevitable “No Chocolate” pledge. The only reason I care is because I have to work at, “Shelby Forest General Store-Where kind hearts and quality food can be found in the same aisle!” and it's my job to stare at other peoples’ shopping.
Actually, the food barely scrapes mediocre and everyone who works or shops here looks suicidal. Me included, of course. I’m one of the ashamed employees who spends half her time hiding behind the soup tins, making sure people don’t recognize me. Terrible, I know. I should be proud of my job, right? Well, I am…of my other job, that is. I’m a part time journalist for this crappy local paper called, “The Daily Buzz”, but due to the unreliability of that job, I was forced, literally forced, to start working at this crappy little store to pay my rent. And when I say part time, I mean they call me every now and then to record some fascinating event, such as the local pie competition, and then don’t call me for months at a time.
I guess this job isn’t too bad. It sure as hell has his perks. For instance, if someone looks like they’re in a rush and needs you to hurry up, it’s always fun to spend as long as you can counting out change and if they complain, burst into tears and claim you’re boyfriend just left you and you’re just trying to do something right for once, making them begin to gush apologies left right and center. Or if they’re buying anything that could cause embarrassment, like an old New Kids on the Block poster or something, you can spend as long as you can looking for a price tag, before finally screaming across the shop to a co-worker, claiming you need the price as the rest of the shoppers turn to see the crimson person who would buy such a terrible thing.
And obviously, one of the best things is the constant bitching and gossiping going on between us employees; you’d be amazed how much we know. Did you know Mrs Sanders actually had an affair with her sister’s fiancé a few years back? No, I didn’t either, but Denise whispered it into my ear the second I came in this morning. Oh, and apparently some pop star is back in town, taking some time to himself and making sure his priorities are straight. Yeah, there’s another word for that - Rehab.
Oh woah, what’s up with this dude? He’s just slammed a six-pack and some frozen pizzas onto the counter as though his life depends on it and is now staring at me with a bored look on his face, waiting for me to scan them. What an asshole.
“Hi,” I say as brightly as I can, just to piss him off.
His half-closed eyes center on me. “Hey,” he mutters.
I take my time, pretending I don’t know where the barcodes are on the products before slowly scanning them through. I look up at him to see whether it’s bothering him, but he looks completely indifferent to the situation. He’s obviously in no hurry.
“That’ll be $15 and twenty two cents, please,” I say chirpily, still trying to provoke a reaction out of him. Come on, man, help me out here. Give me a sigh, or a roll of the eyes, anything.
He pulls out a wad of cash from his back pocket and my eyes widen as I see how much money he has. Since when did guys in their twenties casually carry around about $100 in their back pockets?
He hands me a twenty. “There you go.”
I take a slight intake of breath. Is that…no, it couldn’t be. God, I think it is. It’s Justin Timberlake. The pop star everyones talking about because he’s taking a year off or something. Well that explains why he's here, and it really shouldn't effect me but damn, if I was five years younger I would have melted into a puddle of mush right about now.
Luckily, I’m not and I haven’t, but he’s still mildly attractive, with light brown, curly hair that is more styled than mine, wearing a pair of loose jeans with a T-shirt. He looks cute and casual, but he’s nothing special, especially now that I see him up close. Oh well, who cares. I hand him his change and send him a courteous smile, seeing no point in trying to irritate him now I know he impenetrable. The man has had to put up with screaming teenagers girls his whole life for Christ sake; he’s as hard as nails.
“Thanks for coming, have a nice day,” I murmur unenthusiastically.
“You too, bye,” he replies, and with that, my excitement of the day picked up his bag and strode out of the shop, turning heads as he went.
I was more of a Backstreet fan anyway.
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Fucking TV, why won’t it fucking work? The first time in eight years I actually get the chance to watch TV, and the God damn thing won’t turn on. Figures.
“You might wanna try switching that on, J.”
Trace. I turn to look at him, only to see his smirking face and his hands dug deep in his pockets as he leans against the doorframe. Arrogant prick. “Don’t you think I’ve tried that, Trace?”
He shrugs and his short figure saunters over to me. “I dunno, seems like the kinda stupid thing you’d do.”
Thanks Trace, thanks a lot. I love having you as a friend.
“And anyway,” he carries on, “You don’t have time to watch TV when there’s a million and one missed calls from Johnny on the machine.”
“What does he want?”
“To make sure you haven’t changed your mind, bla bla,” he rolls his eyes. “Same old thing he’s been saying all month. I just stopped answering the phone because I knew it would be him.”
I roll my eyes. “Christ, it’s not a life-altering decision. I’m just taking some time off.”
Trace shrugs again. “Anyway, you need to return his calls, otherwise he’ll never leave you alone.”
“When did he call?” I ask, tiredly.
“When you were at the grocery store.”
“But I was only there for half an hour.”
“Yeah, and he still managed to call five times,” he says, throwing the phone towards me.
I catch it and groan. I don’t want to deal with Johnny right now; the guy can be such a woman with all that whining he does.
Suddenly, the phone began to ring violently in my hands. I wearily pick it up.
“Hello?”
“Justin, it’s Johnny.”
I really should change my number.
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