Cherry Chocolate Chip 24: Screw Customer Service
Title: Screw Customer Service
Main Story: In the Heart
Flavors, Toppings, Extras: Cherry chocolate chip 24 (disgust), malt (Sara's trick or treat: “The secret of being boring is to say everything.” --Voltaire), whipped cream (Ivy is sixteen).
Word Count: 572
Rating: PG-13; Ivy swears.
Summary: In which Ivy has some job-related rage to work out, and Aaron pretends to listen.
Notes: Partly inspired by my own job, which I usually love, but not yesterday.
A slamming noise, a rhythmic thudding like someone stomping, faint indignent huffing. Ivy was home, Aaron thought, and turned a page.
He was not left alone with his book for long. The door to his room swung open and shut hard-- in fact, if she'd shut it any harder he was fairly certain the door frame would have cracked.
"Long day?" he asked, without looking up from his book.
"For God's sake!" Ivy stomped over to his bed, swept off her hat, and sat down so hard the mattress bounced. "I swear they all head straight for me. Do I have 'will go straight for assholes' tattooed on my forehead or something?"
"Let me look." Aaron reached for his sister, ignored her attempt to duck, and flipped up the fringe of bangs she'd recently gotten (a mistake, in his opinion, but she hadn't asked him). "Nope. No tattoo."
Ivy pushed his hand away, irritably. "I know that, jerk. It was what you'd call a rhetorical question."
He raised an eyebrow at her. "And you think I wouldn't know this because..."
She opened her mouth, then shut it, then glared at him and muttered, "Jerk."
Aaron did not take it personally-- his sister liked to spread her misery around sometimes. Instead, he shut his book and sat up. "So I take it you were getting hit on again."
"All damn day," Ivy said, explosively. "The bastards. I tell them I'm taken, they say, 'well, he doesn't have to know.' I tell them it's a girlfriend, they leer at me and ask to watch. I tell them that lesbian means not interested in men, they leer at me more and say I've never had them. I guarantee I don't want them. And that's on top of the vanilla asshole customers. I hate my fucking job!"
There was more in that vein, pretty repetitive but all furious. Aaron listened with half an ear until her ire ran out of words, then asked, "Have you tried wearing a wedding ring?"
Ivy flopped belly down on his bed, now that he was no longer occupying most of it, and stretched out. "I'm sixteen," she said, with the withering scorn that pretty much only a sixteen-year-old could manage. "I don't think that would work."
He shrugged. "Worth a try. Or you could mention that you're underage. That might help."
"Ugh," Ivy said, and proceeded to ignore him. "Seriously. Fuck customer service. Fuck summer jobs. I don't need the money this bad."
"Look at it as motivation to stay in school," Aaron suggested.
"Fuck you too," she said, but without heat. "My coworker has a doctorate. Argh. Do you have to go through this crap?"
He thought back. "No, not usually, but then I work in a daycare. And somehow I consistently fail to get propositioned."
"Lack of tits, probably," Ivy said, with typical bluntness. "Something about them just hypnotizes men. Men who aren't gay."
"Or me," Aaron said. "Or other aces."
She waved a hand lazily in the air, and amended, "Men who like women. And some men who just like boobs. God, I don't even have much of them. My poor coworker has triple Ds and I swear men talk to them, not her."
"How rude." He opened his book again. "Are you finished, or would you like to bitch some more?"
Ivy pushed herself up off the bed. "Nah, I'm good. But seriously, fuck customer service."
Main Story: In the Heart
Flavors, Toppings, Extras: Cherry chocolate chip 24 (disgust), malt (Sara's trick or treat: “The secret of being boring is to say everything.” --Voltaire), whipped cream (Ivy is sixteen).
Word Count: 572
Rating: PG-13; Ivy swears.
Summary: In which Ivy has some job-related rage to work out, and Aaron pretends to listen.
Notes: Partly inspired by my own job, which I usually love, but not yesterday.
A slamming noise, a rhythmic thudding like someone stomping, faint indignent huffing. Ivy was home, Aaron thought, and turned a page.
He was not left alone with his book for long. The door to his room swung open and shut hard-- in fact, if she'd shut it any harder he was fairly certain the door frame would have cracked.
"Long day?" he asked, without looking up from his book.
"For God's sake!" Ivy stomped over to his bed, swept off her hat, and sat down so hard the mattress bounced. "I swear they all head straight for me. Do I have 'will go straight for assholes' tattooed on my forehead or something?"
"Let me look." Aaron reached for his sister, ignored her attempt to duck, and flipped up the fringe of bangs she'd recently gotten (a mistake, in his opinion, but she hadn't asked him). "Nope. No tattoo."
Ivy pushed his hand away, irritably. "I know that, jerk. It was what you'd call a rhetorical question."
He raised an eyebrow at her. "And you think I wouldn't know this because..."
She opened her mouth, then shut it, then glared at him and muttered, "Jerk."
Aaron did not take it personally-- his sister liked to spread her misery around sometimes. Instead, he shut his book and sat up. "So I take it you were getting hit on again."
"All damn day," Ivy said, explosively. "The bastards. I tell them I'm taken, they say, 'well, he doesn't have to know.' I tell them it's a girlfriend, they leer at me and ask to watch. I tell them that lesbian means not interested in men, they leer at me more and say I've never had them. I guarantee I don't want them. And that's on top of the vanilla asshole customers. I hate my fucking job!"
There was more in that vein, pretty repetitive but all furious. Aaron listened with half an ear until her ire ran out of words, then asked, "Have you tried wearing a wedding ring?"
Ivy flopped belly down on his bed, now that he was no longer occupying most of it, and stretched out. "I'm sixteen," she said, with the withering scorn that pretty much only a sixteen-year-old could manage. "I don't think that would work."
He shrugged. "Worth a try. Or you could mention that you're underage. That might help."
"Ugh," Ivy said, and proceeded to ignore him. "Seriously. Fuck customer service. Fuck summer jobs. I don't need the money this bad."
"Look at it as motivation to stay in school," Aaron suggested.
"Fuck you too," she said, but without heat. "My coworker has a doctorate. Argh. Do you have to go through this crap?"
He thought back. "No, not usually, but then I work in a daycare. And somehow I consistently fail to get propositioned."
"Lack of tits, probably," Ivy said, with typical bluntness. "Something about them just hypnotizes men. Men who aren't gay."
"Or me," Aaron said. "Or other aces."
She waved a hand lazily in the air, and amended, "Men who like women. And some men who just like boobs. God, I don't even have much of them. My poor coworker has triple Ds and I swear men talk to them, not her."
"How rude." He opened his book again. "Are you finished, or would you like to bitch some more?"
Ivy pushed herself up off the bed. "Nah, I'm good. But seriously, fuck customer service."