Free Read Between the Lines by Jo Knowles

it the night before.
    Be back soon
, I say in my head.
    I’ll be right here
, it replies reassuringly.
    I say the chant inside my head with every step toward hell. There are thirty-two.
    It’s temporary. It’s temporary. It’s temporary. It’s temporary. It’s temporary. It’s temporary. It’s temporary. It’s temporary. It’s temporary. It’s temporary. It’s temporary. It’s temporary. It’s temporary. It’s temporary. It’s temporary. It’s temporary. It’s temporary. It’s temporary. It’s temporary. It’s temporary. It’s temporary. It’s temporary. It’s temporary. It’s temporary. It’s temporary. It’s temporary. It’s temporary. It’s temporary. It’s temporary. It’s temporary. It’s temporary. It’s temporary.
    At approximately 7:59, I get my time card and slide it in the slot.
    Punch.
    Clocked in.
    I hear Mr. Weidenheff’s voice:
    You’ll never amount to anything.
    And wish I could remove myself from the situation.
    I put on the finishing touches of my uniform. My name tag. Gold. Because I’m the manager. My hat. Black. Like everyone else’s. My earpiece. A contraption I use to boss everyone around.
    No one will greet me as they file up to get their cards and punch in. I’m not a good coworker. I’m orderly. I like to run a clean ship. I don’t put up with lazy asses, ex-cons, old people who don’t have the energy for this job but don’t have enough money to retire, teen moms, or stoners.
    Unfortunately, these are the most common types of people attracted to this job. Then there’s me. There’s a reason I got promoted to manager in less than six months. Mainly it’s because most people quit within two.
    At approximately 8:02, I check the schedule and make a note of who I’ll be supervising at the counter. Alice, Kristen, and Jeff.
    Alice is like seventy-two years old and needs retraining every day because she forgets everything she learned the day before. I should have recommended that we fire her by now, but she makes me cookies sometimes and I like that.
    Kristen is young. Pretty cute. Nice hair. Dropped out of school last year because she got pregnant. We went to the same school, but I don’t remember her. Her crowd didn’t go near my crowd. Now she works here to support her kid. I’m guessing that kid doesn’t eat well.
    Jeff falls under the stoner category. I don’t like his attitude. He thinks everything is funny. He doesn’t care when I yell at him. Or tell him he’s working too slowly. Too sloppily. Too inefficiently.
    You’re so intense, man.
    That’s true. I am intense.
    At approximately 8:06, we deal with the breakfast rush and the smell of egg and chicken. Hell is hot and smells like chicken eggs and chicken meat because some crazy bastards eat chicken on a biscuit for breakfast. These people are on the list of people I fantasize about pushing over a cliff.
    Now it’s 10:37.
    Everything has gone as previously described. No surprise.
    I expect the rest of the day to go just as predictably as it does every day. The breakfast smells have started to fade as the cooks in the back start to prep for lunch. It still smells like chicken in grease. But now there’s beef in grease mixed in. If it weren’t for the French fries helping to lessen the stench, I don’t think I would survive. Alice carefully wipes the counters while Kristen follows with a dry cloth. Jeff wanders aimlessly, trying to look busy. I check supplies throughout.
    Napkins. Check.
    Straws. Check.
    Ketchup and other condiments. Check.
    Still hate my job. Check.
    11:05.
    The lunch crowd starts to flow in. It’s quiet at first, with mostly old people who eat early. But by noon there will be a line, and I will have to make sure everything stays orderly. I especially have to make sure that Alice doesn’t waste time chatting up all her old friends. Everyone seems to love her, and they have no problem telling her how sad it is to see her behind the counter. They don’t care how that might