Rob Does Words
Treating fiction poorly since 2019


You ever had one of those days?


That's me.

In bed, snoring.

7.45, Saturday morning.

That soft buzzing? That's my phone, but we'll get to that.

Eighteen, a year out of school, living with my parents.

They wanted rent so I had to get a job.

Turns out, there aren't many jobs for degree-less kids who didn't graduate high school.

Those that do hire those kind of people tend to make weekend work part of the deal.

The part time job I had has me starting at 7am Saturdays.

That soft buzzing? That's my phone.

Telling me to wake up.

I put it under my pillow so I would hear it.

My pillow is pretty thick and soft.

I'm not waking up any time soon.

That said, that banging noise? That's Mum knocking on my door, telling me in no uncertain terms that I'm late.

That's me, now, telling her I'm up and how her use of language has a detrimental effect on my growth and development as an adult.

I don't use those specific words, but I think she understood when I threw my phone at her as she opened the door.

That's me, walking to work.

Throwing things at my mother lost me car privileges.

Go figure.

I'm walking through the car park at work.

There's one guy in the designated smoking area; Alistair.

I'm friends, sort of, with his brother.

I'm greeting him and pronouncing his name like Alice-derr.

I know Alistair's wife is a health nut.

You know, vegan, no gluten, only shops in even-numbered aisles.

Smoking is the only thing that Alistair has to keep him sane.

Very useful blackmail material. That's why I'm taking the photo of him.

I'm walking into the warehouse, ignoring the bitch yelling at me for being late and making her do all my work.

It’s a lie, mostly.

She's just like me; a worker.

She's just been there longer than anyone else.

Makes her think she's more important than she is.

She probably did have to do some of my work though.

I'm smiling at her now.

I'm discussing my tardiness with my supervisor.

He thinks it’s not a good sign that I've been late so often.

I'm telling him its only been twice.

A lie.

I'm telling him I like working here and I don't want to lose this job.

A lie.

He's telling me that he doesn't want to fire me.

A lie.

I'm telling him I'm happy to work until close tonight to make up for it.

A half-lie.

Cassie is in this afternoon.

We had sex once.

And by that I mean, I saw her bra strap one time from across the room.

My supervisor agrees and says something to the effect of this is my last chance.

That's me, five hours to go.

I'm working while chatting to another guy.

It’s distracting me enough to forget about the clock.

We're down the far end of the warehouse.

Away from bitches and supervisors.

Not from the security cameras though.

There's a new stack of boxes here.

Right in view of the camera.

I'm being told that it was a shipping mistake.

They were meant for the warehouse across the city.

The 40 or so boxes are labelled with a brand of whisky.

The colour of the labels indicate that it’s the expensive brand.

That's me, in the bathroom at work.

Hiding a box of whisky in the ceiling.

That's me, trying to catch Cassie's eye but failing.

That's her, trying to avoid me and succeeding.

That's me, 5.30pm.

Closing time.

There's maybe 9 of us.

The so-called afternoon crew.

And me.

I'm hugging my backpack to my chest.

It has my 'overtime pay' in it.

That's me, hiding my backpack under my bed.

That's Dad telling me dinner is ready.

That's my family eating dinner together.

Watching the television news.

That's the reporter saying the warehouse I work is currently on fire.

That's me, watching the news article, smiling as I eat.

Saying, 'That's fucking funny.'