Blog Post #6

Story from Feb. 18th: Describe a noun in one sentence and then make a story surrounding that particular noun

    The building stood modern and loud with its familiar logo and fluorescent color scheme standing proud for all to see.  Although we've received complaint after complaint the line never ends-- we must be doing something right. The soldiers march in tired, fed up, and ready to assume position. The lieutenants drag themselves in hoping that this war will end better than the last. As the clock-in button is clicked, smiles are forced, hair is brushed back and shoulders too.

       The enemy attacks with order after order, and we fight the good fight with spatulas in hand ready for the rush to end.  It is now 16:22 and one of our soldiers has ran off leaving us down a member, but alas we cannot disappoint so we march on. Some of our men are losing sight of the goal, cries can be heard, prayers are being made, orders are being taken. This is typical of a Friday rush.

        We came here with the hopes of living more, now we just want to go home. The enemy now wants peace so they walk in with their heads held high, receipt in one hand, wife in the other. They complain about the price, they complain about the portions, they complain about the atmosphere. I listen, for it is my job to console them with free food and apologies.

        Men double my size and age talk blindly at me. Disregarding the fact that I am young enough to be their child, tiny enough to fit into their wives purses, and fragile enough to break down at any moment. All they see is a badge, it doesn't represent power- I am worse than a figure head. At least they start off with good reputations. I am responsible for the mistakes of my team. I am in charge of the yelling, the refunds, I receive the write ups, I take the sass, I welcome the drunks. I am a manager.
       With my shoulders slouch, my gaze finds something in the background close enough to his head so that he thinks I'm looking at him. After he is satisfied he leaves victorious and I am left to pick up the pieces.  The wives and girlfriends always leave me with apologetic smirks and body language that tell a tale of despair. I feel sorry for them, but I must return back to my station.

   Wrappers fly, wages are at stake, the American dream is joke, and the orders keep coming.