Chapter 3 "Jaime"

I have this problem. When I am hungover, it's as if there are lingering pockets of liquid courage that get used up over the course of the day. I have done the most courageous things when hungover, and that scene with Dean was a fine example. I have confessed attractions, asked complete strangers out, and told people where to stick it and exactly how far when my body was ridding itself of the awful poison of alcohol.

Punking Dean was menacing, fun, but somewhat cruel. I immediately started feeling bad about it. I felt bad for myself, mostly. Dean can fire me under certain circumstanses and making an enemy is the last thing anyone should do at their job. There was a small human side of me that felt bad for Dean, though. I sauntered over to my locker. Dean probably had people doing stuff like that to him all of his life. My utter spite for him wouldn't let me fully feel for him and his life. Some of his problems in life are surely self inflicted. I was just somewhat surprised by the fact that I still had a conscience about such things.

I mean, this is Dean, right? When I switched from night stock person to the deli, this is the the guy who had me work graveyards and then come in to train during the day until they found a replacement for me at night. This is guy who never has given me a full weekend off in four years. This is the guy who cut my pay 8 cents an hour, when he found out there was a slight pay differential between working nights versus working day deli shift. His clock thing, the wheezing, the sniffing of my lunch and proclaiming it smells good, the nitpicking of my time sheet ... yes, this was Dean. A foul man, indeed.

I might have to explain this little altercation to the store manager, Gerard. Gerard Jackson was a much better human than Dean. Gerard was a little over sixty years old, and was a pretty shrewd and hardened old guy. He didn't like Dean, but trusted him enough to make decisions, and would generally stand behind decisions that Dean made, as long as the decisions were fair and just. Luckily for me, Gerard wasn't in today. I could fuck with this little problem tommorrow.

I strapped on my apron, pulled a new hairnet over my head and walked over to the back of the deli. In front of my entrance to the deli was a pallet of several 25lb boxes of meat. I sighed. I looked to my left into the walk-in refrigerator that the deli and the butcher shared. Oh and there she was. Jaime. In the year and a half that she has worked here I think she's said two words to me. She was squatting over a couple of heavy boxes about to lift them, behind her apron she was only wearing a ribbed black tanktop. I traced over her shoulders and back with my eyes. She was flawless, really. Well, aside from the plastic gloves with ground beef stuck all to them.

I think I could classify her as a nice looking goth girl. She didn't wear make up. Her skin was smooth and milky, yet rippled with sinous mass. Her hair was black, straight and fine. It was like if it were to fall over your naked skin it would feel like a shower of the rarest silk. She had beautiful lips, and the whitest teeth I have ever seen.

I heard her laugh once, she was talking to her boss a few months ago and when she laughed it was like an erruption of hearty music. There was a horseness to her laughter that I found completely captivating. It had this husky Kathleen Turner quality with the abandon of a child. I had decided to love her from that point on.

She grabbed the boxes and strained a little. I heard her let out a tiny gasp. I thought I'd die right there. She straightened out and began to lumber the boxes out of the walk-in. I piped up, "Here Jaime, let me help you with that." (OH, BAD JUDGEMENT...WHAT ARE YOU ABOUT TO MAKE ME DO?!) I moved over and grabbed the top box as she went through the door. She turned and faced me. She looked at me quizzically and then blew a few wisps of hair out of her face with an exasperated sigh.

"Thanks," she breathed. "But it looks like you got enough to lift today," she nodded at the pallet on the floor next to my feet.

"Why don't you let me worry about that."

"Don't worry, I will. But you don't need to help me with this stuff. Put it back on top. Here." She said and tried to scoop my box with hers.

"Just show me where it goes, tough stuff,” I growled at her. She smiled and krinkled up her nose a little. I was becoming aware of the fact that in about 24 hours I had grown a pair of whiskey balls and I liked it. It must have been another pocket of leftover Maker's Mark swirling around in my body, or maybe it was the Jessica Simpson dream. Maybe I had just grown sick of the way things were.

"Okay, follow me." And there I was following the beautiful Jaime into the warehouse and around to the prep area for the fresh meat department. Fresh meat. Two funny words.

I can do something that no one else can do. I can slow down time with my mind. I can only do it for short periods of time, but I can do it. When I do it there is one purpose, and one purpose only. That purpose is to remember every single detail of a series of moments in time. I did this while I was following Jaime. I remember thinking I'd follow her anywhere. It must of took a whole hour to walk thirty to fifty steps. Every step heartbreaking in slow motion. I could go into vast detail about her little low-rise khaki pants with the silver zipper on the right butt pocket. I could tell you that though she was carrying a heavy load her buttocks still swayed and locked gently in the rhythm of her perfect gait. Her shirt had come up and stuck lightly to small of her back, exposing the sensitive flesh residing there. I could speak volumes on the incedental touching of her waist as I moved past her to return to my deli, and the quiet almost inaudible, "Thank you," that she muttered. Oh, my heterosexual brothers, I could go into detail.

I won't, though. I'll keep that memory for myself.

The rest of the day was rather uneventful except for the dog attack, face tearing incedent.