The cashier sits behind the desk and watches the world go by. Every now and then someone buys a Twinkie or comes in to pay for gas or asks for the keys to the washroom, and the cashier will smile and nod and say yes of course and thank you very much and the transaction completed the person leaves, and the semblance of life behind that dead-eyed glaze fades away. It wouldn’t take much to see past the mask; just a second of eye contact and it would be clear to anyone who cared to notice that the cashier is dead inside, has been dead inside for longer than they can remember. And yet somehow, due to the miracle of life, the cashier keeps on living, keeps on breathing, keeps on walking. Every day the cashier wakes up at 9:00AM, takes a shower, has cereal for breakfast, goes to work for 10:30AM, has a lunch break at 12:30PM and gets back to work at 1:00PM, completes the shift at 6:00PM and heads home, sticks a frozen dinner package in the microwave for the appropriate time, stirs it in a counter-clockwise motion with the fork when it’s done, sits in front of the television eating, then goes to bed. Like a body set to rest in a coffin one size too small, the cashier’s existence has been forced into a day-by-day routine which, while extremely uncomfortable, would take nothing short of a miracle to be freed from.
The cashier is not broken-hearted, has not recently lost a loved one, has never been diagnosed with depression or any other major medical disorder. There is no real reason for the cashier’s state, nothing the coroners or the newspapers will be able to point to and say “there: there it is, that’s why.” The closest anyone will ever come to the reason is when one of the cashier’s co-workers shrugs and says “life” in response to the rhetorical “how could this have happened” posed by another co-worker.
Life. Life is what has happened to the cashier. Things simply never fell into place for them. They never found something that interested them to the point of wanting to do it for the rest of their life, they never found someone they loved, or someone who loved them back. They never had a serious hobby, they never found that one thing that makes them feel alive. Things just didn’t fall into place. They fell apart.
There was never anything to distract the cashier from life, from the everyday toil of living. There was never any real reason not to enjoy life, except for the fact that life itself is not enjoyable. It is only when we find things to enjoy that we are content; everything else is just convincing yourself not to think about the unthinkable until you move on to the next distraction.
The cashier sits behind the desk and thinks about what they have decided to do once they get home. It’s the first real major decision they’ve committed to in a long time. The decision has no overall effect on the cashier’s behaviour or attitudes; it’s always been there, lurking just beyond the darkness in the cashier’s mind, waiting patiently for the day when the light would come on and reveal it, accept it. It’s always been there. It’s there in all of us. The cashier still smiles when customers come in, still makes the same lighthearted remarks when customers purchase something out of the ordinary worth acknowledging, still wishes people a good day and a good afternoon and a good night as they leave. The only difference is that now there is a sense of relief, of finality, of closure. Everything is on the table now. There’s nothing to hide, nothing to deny. The light is on, and what was once in the shadows, ignored and denied, is now welcomed inside and greeted like an old friend.
The cashier goes home, and sticks a frozen dinner package in the microwave for the appropriate time, stirs it in a counter-clockwise motion with the fork when it’s done, sits in front of the television eating, then goes to bed. There is a bottle of pills on the bedside table. It is empty.