Sunday

      You know that song “Time Warp” from The Rocky Horror Picture Show? I used to think that song was so cool. But that was Sunday. Now it’s Sunday and I hate it. I hate that song and any other song, movie, show, book, and whatever else that talks about time loops. Leiper’s Fork, Tennessee is shitty enough as it is, but repeating a Sunday in Leiper’s Fork is incomparably worse.

           I’ve been stuck at this old rundown gas station register for more Sundays than should be humanly possible. Stuck staring at the peeling paint on the walls, the soda fountain with five of the twelve dispensers broken, the tiled floors with its pattern just wrong enough to drive anyone’s OCD into maximum overdrive, and the creaky ceiling fan that really only pushes the dust around the store. Stuck watching the same Sunday customers come up to the counter, buying the same nasty tuna salad sandwich from the Fresh Food section that should be put on trial for its crimes against humanity for claiming anything over there is fresh or food. Stuck listening to them say the same unfunny jokes, stuck saying the same unfunny response. I know there are a lot of ways this could be worse. I could be 15 instead of my mature 17. I could be short and chunky instead of being tall and lanky. I could be a ginger instead of blonde. At least I’m none of those things like my junkie brother. I know it could be so much worse, but that doesn’t mean it couldn’t be so much better.

           Here comes the same customer as always, time for the same thing I’ve heard every single Sunday for the past forever.

“Have a great Wednesday!” There’s the line, now I just need to give my standard response and move on to the next one.

           “Thanks, you also-“ Wait. What did he just say? What was that? “Did… Did you say Wednesday?” I know I must look deranged, like I’ve seen the ghost of Jesus himself walk through my store, but I have to know if that’s what he said or if it’s just wishful thinking.

           “Yes, I said Wednesday. You know, you really should maintain a more professional manner when speaking to customers. I’m certain your manager wouldn’t approve of this kind of behaviour.”

           “Shut up.” I cut off whatever he’s going to say about the store being terrible now that they hire high school kids. That shit doesn’t matter anymore.

           “Excuse me?!”

           “Fuck you, fuck the customers, fuck the manager, and fuck this store!” Whatever indignant response that asshole had was lost as I parkour over the counter, rip the stupid blue vest off, and crash through those glass double doors. I’m gone before my nametag hits the floor. It’s Wednesday. It’s motherfucking Wednesday! Sunday is over! I don’t give a shit about anything else. Sunday is over!

           I pray whatever rando in a supersuit that fixed this knows that my skinny white ass is grateful as all hell to not be stuck in a loop of Sunday. I don’t care who they are, I don’t care why it was happening, I don’t care how they fixed it but they fixed it and I’m free. I don’t even care that it’s Wednesday instead of Monday. Why does it matter what happened to Monday and Tuesday? What difference does it make as long as it’s not Sunday anymore? I’m going somewhere else, as far as I possibly can. I’m going somewhere to do things that are going to be interesting enough to loop every day. I’ll find a place sketchy enough to not ask questions about a teenager wanting to drink, and smoke, and gamble, and whatever the hell else they wanna do. I’m going to find me some hot prostitutes to pretend to care about me for a few hours, I’ll try whatever drugs are offered to me by shady men in alleyways, I’ll drink til I pass out, and I’ll play poker until I die a death that would make a cowboy in an old Western movie say “I always knowed the cards’d do me in.”

           I borrowed my brother’s car. Not like he’s gonna miss it from jail anyway. I think I’m going to Las Vegas. I know that there’s all kinds of kids there probably doing illegal things so I’ll just be one more in the masses. A faceless bag of cash in the piggy bank of a casino overlord. The drive there is so much longer than I’d been imagining. I keep stopping for gas and staring into the blank stares of shmucks like I was. I at least have the decency to not force them to say more than necessary. So many eyes, drained to voids by the despair of customer service. Tragic, really. But they don’t question me using my mom’s card to pull hella cash from the ATM so that’s all that really matters to me. I’ve just gotta keep going.

           Finally, I’ve made it all the way to Vegas. Time to party! The New York New York Hotel & Casino is so beautiful. I know I’m in Nevada, but it’s so amazingly stunning that I know I’ll spend at least a few days here. Then maybe I’ll go on over to Paris, and possibly even the Venetian. The Strip is fantastic at night, I’ve never seen so many people out at this late of an hour! And all the lights, the hookers, the dealers, the casinos! I’ve never ridden a rail shuttle before. Whoever it was that thought out this city, I blow a chef’s kiss to the sky for you. Absolutely brilliant. This place really is the most hospitable place ever. Sin City is clearly the best place for me to be right now, especially on a lovely not-Sunday evening.

           I know my luck is gonna run dry eventually, but for now I’m rolling in cash and the hotel beds are comfier than anywhere I’ve ever slept before. I can’t wait to wake up to another day here in this paradise, so incredibly far from a Sunday in Tennessee. There’s the alarm clock, here comes another great day!