The Eye, the Clerk, and the Archetypes

Lonely tonight, but not gregarious. Just another Monday night. Apathy.

I drive to the video store, looking for some chuckles. Just as I make my decision to see the Onion Movie, a pair of teenage girls passes me and one of them gives me the Eye. I pretend not to notice. I know that Eye. Nothing but trouble. These two are teenage girls in an archetypal sort of way, at the hormonal apex of puberty. Vain, insecure, selfish, sporadic, fickle, and foolish.

They beat me to the checkout counter, laughing obnoxiously at nothing in particular. Eye Girl tosses the video at the clerk, who fumbles it. His face darkens into a frown. I know this clerk 's face by now. This guy is always here. I think he's the assistant manager. Mid-forties, slightly dorkish. Trying desperately to pretend that he still has some dignity, but badly beaten down by years of standing behind the cash register, taking abuse from rude teenage girls who have no respect for anyone, including themselves. This store is his own personal hell.

Tonight, he's tightly wound. I can see it in his eyes. Like he's about to snap. He's tense in a way Eye Girl can't possibly understand. He sees through her, beyond her individuality, to her essence, her Archetype, brilliantly illuminated beneath fluorescent bulbs. He sees it. Teenage girls eventually become bored house-wives, but when you're standing behind the counter at the video store, watching years go by in maddening time-lapse, they seem to stand still, encapsulated, always the same. This is the girl who wouldn't give him the time of day in high school, who hurt his feelings and made him feel small. And now he's forty and still working a shitty job and still taking shit from her. Not her specifically, but HER, timelessly. The unfairness of life is now fully in his face, crushing him.

His voice is monotone. “Phone number?”

“You know what it is,” she sneers. I guess she's a regular. “No, I don't,” he fumes. She rolls her eyes and rattles off her number far too quickly to be heard. Now he's pissed. “Slower,” he growls. She repeats it with agonizing slowness, in a mocking, sing-song tone, locking eyes with him, daring him to slap her. He unlocks the movie, slams the plastic guard on the counter, takes her five-dollar bill with a look of barely suppressed rage that seems to amuse her. I start to get a little nervous. He fixes her with a glare, slams the change on the counter and mutters “next customer in line” in a dark tone of voice that implies "I hope it hurts when you die." She scoops up the video, and as she slinks toward the door, gives me the Eye again. My gaze is sexless and penetrating. I proceed to the counter.

“Number,” he whispers, not even making eye contact. He is, at this moment, a broken man, and it is painful to behold. So I deliver the requested digits at just the right pitch, volume, and tempo; respectfully, deferentially. I let him control the rest of the transaction, allowing him to decompress and regain the illusion of dignity. Then I thank him, and wish him a good night. His weak smile of appreciation is bittersweet. Now I am the Archetype of the decent customer.

I drive home musing on how grateful I am that I probably will never have to work that job again.