Of Gatherings and Noses

I got a spontaneous bloody nose this morning. I think it happened during the first mocha of the morning, I can't remember. What I do remember is a wet feeling in my nose. I put my left hand up to the nostril, pulled it away, and looked. A bright red smear across the back of my hand, like a smudged kiss from a woman who used too much lipstick. Assistant Manager #2, who opened the store with me, finished the drink as I headed off to the bathroom to help with the clotting.

Spontaneous bloody noses are nothing new to me. When the air is dry, my nose tends to bleed. I remember my family's trip across Nevada to Utah. My nose suddenly started to bleed and it wouldn't stop. I didn't hold my head back because that just lets the blood run down the throat, which becomes sore, into the stomach, which becomes upset and eventually decides to evacuate its contents. I watched the blood congeal into something like soupy Jello. I was surprise. I thought that blood just turned hard, not slimy. I was wrong.

Today's bloody nose was a surprise because, unless it's happened while I was asleep, I haven't had a bloody nose since I moved to Cowcity. Maybe it was a defense mechanism against the people at work.

They keep asking me if I'm going to the thing tomorrow night. Each one of them. Each and every one of them has asked me if I'm going. The more they ask, the less I want to go. The more they ask, the more I want to dig my heels and prove that I don't have to do what everyone else is doing. The more they ask, the more I want to quit.

If this thing had happened last month, I would have gone. I felt like it was possible to have some future beyond being on the lowest rung of 'Bucks. Then I was told that there was no way I was going to be given a promotion. Not because I do poor work, I was told, but because I just don't seem motivated to doing more for the company. When I asked what "more" meant, I was told they weren't sure, but they'd know it if I achieved it. At that time, when no one knew when this celebration thing was going to happen, I asked if helping out with that would be a bit "more." They said it wouldn't. *sigh* If going to a work thing that I don't want to go to won't help me get a better position, why go? Don't I give enough time to the store?

When Assistant Manager #1 showed up, she told me to go. No asking, this time, she just told me to go. I ignored her and took orders and money from customers. From then on, when ever she was talking about the thing, she'd always make a point to say, "I think everyone is going, except--" and then she'd drop to a whisper, as if I didn't know she was talking about me. Does she really think this will get me to go?

After work and driving back here, I climbed back in bed and slept. I woke up at about two-thirty with my usual nap head-ache. I'm still tired.

Laceration

I cut my thumb at work last night while washing the dishes. Not a little paper cut thing, nothing that simple. I mean a deep cut. The cut is not across the tip on the thumb, no, it's up and down, so when ever I grab something I can feel the cut spilt open and sting.

Like I wrote, I was washing dishes when the cut happened, but I didn't cut it on a knife. I cut my thumb on the thing that hangs from the wall and holds the ice teas and iced coffee. Why that would be made so sharp is something I can't (and don't really want to) fathom. As soon as I saw the cut, I tucked my thumb into my palm, curled the rest of my finger over it, and went in search of Band-Aids (or adhesive bandagess, for those Randals of the world). Can you guess what happened? After a couple of minutes rummaging through the first aid kit, I found no Band Aides.

On my way to the front of the store, I grabbed a paper towel, wrapped it around my thumb, then retucked and recurled.

"Are Band-Aids only kept in the first aid kit?" I asked BCTB.

"What?" she asked. I repeated my question. "Yup, that the only place," she said. "Why?"

"Oh, I was just looking for them and couldn't find any. I cut myself and figure I shouldn't get blood on the drinks." I headed back to the kit to check again.

As I finished up my third time going through all the pockets, The Manager came back.

"What's up?" she asked.

"Lookin' for Band-Aids," I said, starting a fourth search.

"Did you cut yourself?"

"Yup."

"Find any?" She started to look over my shoulder as I pushed the bag (yes, a bag) of aspirin aside, again.

"Nope."

"Do you really think you need one?"

"Yup. See," I said unwrapping my thumb and showing her the cut.

"Oh, dear God," she said (I swear I could hear the uppercase "G" in her voice.) and took a step away from me.

I turned back to the kit and said, "And that's why I keep looking."

"Here," she said, "I'll get you five dollars from my till. You can run to the store and get a box." She started walking toward the front of the store then turned back to me. "Will five dollars be enough? Do you think it'll cover it? Do you think it'll be enough?"

"Yes."

"I'm not sure it'll be enough."

She walked out front. I zipped the kit up, put it back on the shelf, and headed out front. The Manager handed me a five. I slipped off my apron, hung it up, and headed out the store.

I have to admit, once I got out the front door, I took my time. I didn't want to hurry back to serve the public. Who does? (Not those people in Washington, that's for sure.)

Rather than making this short story long, I'll just say I found Band-Aids (the real brand) on sale. I put two on my thumb (When I saw the paper towel I sang to myself, "I once was brown, but now am red / was clean, now am dirty.") and when I bled through both I put a third on. I couldn't put on any Neosporinesque stuff until I got back to the apartment, which I did, but that was three hours later.

Now, my thumb is wrapped in two non-Band-Aid brand Band-Aids, but it still stings, especially when I pick things up. Oh, did I mention that it's the thumb on my right hand and that I'm right handed? Well, it is and I am, and that makes things all the more uncomfortable.