Some people make a job out to be some glorious thing, luring unsuspecting and lazy freeloaders into the binds of a C.I.D.R. (Choice I Deeply Regret.) with ever-so-shiny adjectives and the promise of riches.

They lie.

A job, whilst sometimes shiny and pay-ish, wasn't the glorious thing others made it out to be. Take, for example, my job;

A clerk in a large department store located in the center of the mall. Sound intriguing? It isn't.

For, you see, there are four things seriously wrong with this job;

1. There's nothing like clocking in a few minutes late and being threatened by Mr. Bradt, the assistant manager. Mmm...I think I'll do this every Wednesday, just to piss some people off. I've been pretty lucky so far...

2. If there's a big mess that some five year old decided to create (The sign on the display said 'Do not touch!' in nice, big letters, but apparently, in this day and age, people can not read and always have to park their stroller/cart near a display. Always. There are no exceptions.), the duty of cleaning it up is automatically passed onto the 'noob'. (I.E. Me.)

3. The purple vest (purple, I ask you...) and pants are way too tight on me. Dear management, I think it's time you realized that the uniforms need to be fit to work in a department store with, not work the streets for your pimp with.

4. I'm only getting $10.50 an hour. My best friend, Harley, also a clerk, is getting $15.00. There is something wrong with this scenario.

Which bring me to my co-workers. I present to you, the hierarchy of a department store.

I. Manager; Proctor Lettley. She's cool, mainly because she's never around. We suspect she's mooching off of the manager of the donut shop right outside our store.

II. Assistant Manager; Mr. Bradt, who's got a stick shoved so far up his ass some clerks have volunteered to send in a search and destroy squad to recover the thing. We fear that he ingested a broom or something.

III. Resident kiss-ass; Harley Toggs. AKA 'Harlot', Harley lives up quite well to all of her nicknames. Perhaps best known for her taste in shoes, her stilettos scare every clerk who works in her division away. I always fear they'll be caught in the escalator or she'll trip while presenting to customers how a treadmill works.

IV. And, finally, me, Camry Dockers, and all of the other pitiful little clerks and assistants scattered throughout the store.

Now that I've gotten back from a much-needed Fall Vacation, the first days of my job are only beginning, and you know what that means. My job, back for another shot at breaking my spirit (And my back, while it's at it.) and ruining my life.

Yay.

---

Keys suck. I'm not gonna lie. And they're made of metal. With it being November here, the temperatures were somewhat different from those of Florida (Disney for the win, people. For the freaking win.), and my fingers felt like they had frostbite already. And, not only that, but I was trying to get in through the back door, and it always stuck. So now I had found the right key, stuck it in the lock, and the door still was not open.

And then it occurred to me that someone was giggling on the other side of the door.

Oh, hell no.

"Haaaaaarrrrrlot!" I shouted, pounding on the doors. My first day back--I should have expected this from her. This was it. As soon as I got my hands on her, I was stealing her stilettos and throwing them in the paper-shredder.

A stifled snort. "What are you weeeeeeaaaaaarrring?" the distinctly male voice replied. I froze. That wasn't Harley's voice...it was...

Oh, double hell no.

"Hugo! Let me in!" I shouted angrily, calling out the name of my fellow clerk.

"C'mon, Dockers, answer the question!" called Hugo's accomplice, and this time, it was the voice of a woman. Or, more precisely, it was Harley's voice. I should have known she would have been involved in making me miserable--it was what friends did.

...Wow. That logic astounds me.

I stopped my pounding of the door, glowered at it for a moment, and then answered sardonically,

"Ballet slippers, a tiara, and not much else."

Silence. And then;

"Are you serious?"

"What the--Do you really think I'm serious, you idiot? Now let me the hell in before Mr. Bradt comes and chews us all out!"

The door swung open, revealing the traumatized faces of my two best 'friends' (And I use that term lightly.), Escalus Merone the III (Although he'd main whoever called him by his true name; it was either 'Hugo' or the ICU.) and Harley Toggs.

Hugo squinted down at me through his heavy brown bangs.

"You liar," he said, pointing at me. I looked down at myself, at my purple vest and black slacks, and stared cynically up at him.

"I was joking. Jay-Kay, you know?"

"Oh, ignore Escalus. He's been dumped. Again." Harley cut in, waving a finely manicured hand in Hugo's direction. I noted that, today, her stilettos were bright red, her blonde hair was pulled into twin curls on the sides of her face, and her clothes were especially tight.

Oh, it must be employee inspection day again.

"Smart girl. It was Chandler, wasn't it?" I asked, smirking up at the red-faced Hugo.

"Psha. No. She was last week. But I don't need Chandler or Andrea. I was too much for them anyway." he said, crossing his arms and pointing his chin upwards in a proud stance.

"They found out his real name, didn't they?" I muttered to Harley. She nodded.

"Okay then! If you two'll step aside, I can clock in. It's not Wednesday, you know. I need to get in on time or Mr. Bradt'll raise hell." I said, pushing past them and entering the warehouse. It was drafty, dark, and smelled like sawdust and cheap cologne. I clocked in, walked to my station, and came upon so many memos I was almost sure this couldn't be my desk.

Frowning, I picked up the nearest one and read off 'Dockers, first shift with Merone and Maverick. Ladies department, perfume counter, 7:00 AM to 3:00 PM.', which was written in Mr. Bradt's tiny, contempt-filled scrawl.

Great. My first day back and already I have to work the most humiliating section in the whole store; the perfume counter. Not only that, but I have to work with Simon Maverick, the weirdest clerk ever to set foot in The Pit. (Don't get me wrong; my gang was pretty strange, but not as strange as Maverick. He deserves the italicizes.)

With a groan, I pin my nametag onto my vest and check my hair in the mirror in Harley's station. Still straight, still blonde.

With a deep breath, I walk to the doors leading out of the warehouse, and pull them open. Light pours in, blinding me for a moment, but I take a step forward, crossing into The Pit.

And I'm sure not ready for what I see.