Jenny works for the same computer design company she has since her freshman year in college.
She had started off as an intern and quickly made her way up the ranks and was now one of the most talented graphic designers they had on staff. She helped me out in a pinch when I was opening my store and made all of the flyers, brochures, and business cards in her free time and refused to take any payment. It had been one of the main reasons I decided I liked her.
Anyone who doesn’t charge me for services rendered is good people in my book.
Jenny laughs manically at my question about work and crossed her arms in front of her. “That’s a great question, Claire. And the answer would be, I got fired,” she replies before bursting into tears, flinging her arms around me, and burying her face in my shoulder.
Oh Jesus God no.
I awkwardly bend my elbow and pat my hand against her lower back. She still has her arms wrapped around me in a vice grip and that’s as high as I can reach. I shove my other hand into the pocket of my jeans and pull out my cell phone, sending a quick “please help me, God” text to Liz next door.
Jenny continues to cry, sniffle and every few minutes wail. After subtly spitting out some of her hair from my mouth as she burrows further into my neck and shoulder, I anxiously glance down at my cell phone wondering how much longer I will need to pretend I enjoy soothing people during breakdowns before Liz gets her ass over here and rescues me. It probably won’t be very friend-like of me if I start freaking out that there might now be a pile of someone else’s snot pooling on the shoulder of my tee-shirt. My phone buzzes in my hand and I crane my neck over Jenny’s shoulder to see the message.
I am busy with customers. You are going to have to MAN UP and comfort her yourself. Start acting like you have a vagina for f**k’s sake and hug her.
XOXO – Liz
I grit my teeth at the knowledge I am on my own in the pits of consoling hell.
“There, there,” I say, patting her on the back again. I really think I should have been born a guy. I don’t know many women who get skeeved out by displays of emotion. If I see a woman crying, I usually run in the other direction. I am not one of those people that throws my arms around her and tells her everything will be okay—because it probably won’t. It will most likely suck just as much whether I hug you or not, so it’s probably best for everyone involved if I just stand off to the side and let someone else do the touching. I feel much more comfortable wallowing in anger and stewing about something privately until my head explodes. That's natural. Hugging and crying and snotting all over someone isn’t.
“Didn’t you just get a raise? Why in the hell would they fire you?” I ask as I worm my way out of her arms and try to subtly back away from her.
Don’t look at the snot on your shoulder, don’t look at the snot on your shoulder. I know you can feel it there, but for God’s sakes, DON’T LOOK AT IT!
Jenny finally releases her hold on me and uses the back of her hands to wipe the tear streaks off her face. If only she would have done that with the snot instead of using my shoulder.
“I don’t have any idea why they really fired me. They gave me some song and dinner about positive attitude.” she pouts.
“You mean dance?” I ask in confusion.
“Claire, focus! I got fired! This is no time for talk about dancing,” she yells.
I take a deep, calming breath and put my hands on my hips to keep from strangling her.
“Okay, so they fired you because they didn’t like your attitude?” I reiterate.
Jenny looks at me incredulously. “I know, right? I told them I was the most positive person in that dump.”
“Verbatim?” I ask her.
“I didn’t forbid them anything. What are you talking about? Are you even listening? Have you been drinking?”
The last is stated in a stage whisper as she looks over at the customer who came in earlier. I pinch the bridge of my nose and try not to stomp my foot and throw a temper tantrum like Gavin does when I tell him he is grounded from PlayStation.
“What am I going to do without a job?” she whines as she paces back and forth in front of me. “It’s mine and Drew’s three month anniversary and I was going to buy him something really special and now I’m not going to be able to afford it.”
I grab onto her elbow to stop her pacing and pulled her back behind the counter with me when I saw the customer was finally ready to order.
“I’m sure Drew will understand,” I tell her as I start filling a box with the woman’s request of a pound of white chocolate covered pretzels.
“No he won’t. He’s going to be so upset. I already told him what I was buying, and he was really looking forward to the vagina mold,” she says dejectedly.
I drop the metal candy scoop on the floor and look over at Jenny as she sighs miserably.
As I pick up the scoop and toss it into the sink before grabbing a clean one, all sorts of thoughts swirl through my mind that shouldn’t be when I am waiting on a customer—like who-ha’s covered in green fuzz and moldy cheese vaginas dancing around the Tupperware container in the back of my fridge with two-month old spaghetti in it.
Jenny looks over and sees the horror on my face as I try to block out the mental image of moldy cheese vaginas singing, “Mold, mold, baby,” in the voice of Vanilla Ice in my head.
“Claire, didn’t you see the new product Liz got in last week? It’s a mold you can make of your vagina. So your guy can…you know…”