I didn't want to be here but contrary to popular opinion, Poetry wasn't paying.
And the Learjet needed new shoes and I of course, had a bad habit to maintain.
The guy behind the counter looked at me like a space alien, or at least a mild curiosity.
And being I was asking for an application to a shit job that paid the bare minimum because slavery was supposedly abolished.
I was being looked down on from the moment I walked through the door.
to the second I asked for the application.
The Dollar General was the first commercial franchise store to be introduced on this God forsaken island.
So maybe if we crossed our fingers, in this century,
They might introduce a fucking fast food franchise and a liquor store.
Least then it would make life in this inbred piss hole bearable.
"I thought you were a writer? Guess it ain't going so well, now that you're finally looking to get yourself a real job.”
The slightly rotund dipshit behind the counter said.
I bit my tongue as always.
For I have learned from my many years in dealing with primates and rednecks, common sense or good manners are wasted upon them.
That and considering the guy was the manager of the place,
I figured telling him,” to go fuck himself!” wasn't exactly going to get me in his good graces.
So I just remained silent as I continued to fill out the application.
Which although no college graduate, I seemed qualified for.
I mean handing out change I could do.
The mock concern that I actually gave a flying fuck if some lard ass choked to death on their spray-on cheese, pork rinds, and Moon Pies washed down with a diet coke, was going to be a challenge but, for minimum wage and the thought of no future advancement.
Of course I was eager to start this party to my dead end career.
And as I handed in the application, the act of pretending I wanted anything more than a shitty paycheck began.
It was the usual bullshit.
"So tell me something, if I ask around this community what would they tell me about you?"
"Well being I never socialize with anyone and my only friend that lived here is now in the ground,
there's nothing to tell, but I'm sure the local gossip hounds will make something up."
The manager did not seem amused with my lovely sarcasm.
"I don't mean anything but can I ask you something?"
"Shoot."
"Well I am just curious. I mean we see you in here a lot and you’re always alone. So I mean can I ask, are you gay?"
I heard a lot of strange questions in my life but that one truly took the cake.
"Not that I know of. I mean I haven't had a craving for some cock today but thanks for asking. Now are there any other highly inappropriate questions that don't pertain to this job you would like to ask?"
The manager flushed a bit looking down at the application.
"I'm sorry, I was just curious is all. I mean you being a writer.
I mean I never see you with anyone."
"Well you know, no disrespect intended but when on a date I usually avoid hanging out in a convenience store. Also, I only date humans not farm animals, so that’s why you never see me dating here."
"I'm sorry I really didn't mean to offend you.”
The clerk quickly responded.
My patience, now fully gone, I walked off and grabbed a six pack of semi cold beer
and told the dude to get me a pack of Lucky Strikes.
And as the dipshit rang me up in this ever awkward climate, he had created, I decided to throw in a dash of sarcastic asshole to lighten the mood.
"You know bud, if I was homosexual, you really aren't supposed to be asking that to begin with. I mean it could really cause you some big issues. Imagine how the local news would eat that shit up."
Suddenly the guy behind the counter came to life.
"Hey, I didn't mean anything bad seriously, I mean-."
"Yeah imagine a bunch of protesters outside your store, I mean it really wouldn't look good on you pal.
Then imagine when corporate got wind of this little socially incorrect incident."
"Hey, that's not funny. You know what, you're right, it was my bad sir. Hey let me buy your beer, I will make sure you get hired. When can you start?"
I laughed and simply took my beer and smokes and carried my ass off without a reply.
Besides, how could I work for a bunch of backwards homophobes?
It's strange how people judge you without even taking a second of this existence to actually get to know you before forming an opinion.
Almost how another small community judges me as a womanizing, drunken asshole piece of shit.
It's funny how people want labels on everything to justify their ignorance.
Labels only belong on bottles and beer cans.
I never pen stories about Knotts Island, North Carolina and now you truly can understand why.
See you in the showers.
Toodles.
John Patrick Robbins, ran into a burning building and saved multiple whiskey bottles and the Scandinavian bikini team today.
Because he only saves beautiful people and whiskey.
He is currently the curator of the John Patrick Robbins museum located on Skull Island.
Please don't forget to visit our gift shop for a wide variety of signed books by writers he no longer speaks to.
His work has been published in Esquire,Screw Magazine, Modern Folk Dancers Quarterly, Family Circle, Tiger Beat Magazine and that shithole the Dope Fiend Daily.
He is also the editor and chief of ten million magazines and is a fine art collector who resides in your nightmares and will kill you fuckers on poetry street with his nonstop readings.
He also runs his writers retreat located at shady pines mental facility.
Where he is writing his thesis on the Transformers.
