Doing time

"Today, we are planting in two rows along this stretch. There will be ten trees in each row. You two will be working on this side." The Corrections Officer points to the other side of the road as we shuffle into our high-vis jackets beside a pick-up truck full of sad trees. The Officer continues in her monotone, "The tools are in the truck, and I'll be with you shortly to give you a short demonstration." 

Why does this Corrections lady presume that I wouldn't know how to plant a tree? Entitled prick! To be moderately fair to her, most people here look like they would have no idea, especially my partner. White shoes, cropped jeans, dark coat and slightly curled hair. Everything I have seen a million times before and everything that says, "I am too scared to make any decisions for myself, but I still wanna be classy." Well, Classy Clara, I don't know what you did to get you here, but time to get your hands dirty. I walked to the truck to pick up the tools and motioned her to bring a tree over to the first spot. I start digging, and Clara looks for the water hose after placing the tree next to me.  

One thing I will give to Classy Clara, she knows how to get a job done. I was ready to lay into her bougie ways if she even as much winced at anything, but she seemed to be prepared and precise. I had purposefully been a bit sloppy while digging and made sure earth flew in the general direction of Miss Classy Cla-

"It's Krissy, by the way", she interrupts, "what's your name?" 

"Kristen, don't tell me Krissy is short for Kristen!" I hate seeing her triumphant smile. She thinks we have something in common now, doesn't she? Well, Missy Krissy, don't blame me for the lack of imagination on my parent's part. "Well, I go by Kris anyway", I said and started loosening some of the soil around the roots.  

"Well, Kris", she says with barely concealed glee, "Do you want to take the odd numbers spots and I'll take the even, or would you rather work together? If we work together, I would appreciate it if you didn't test my patience. My shoes don't need mud on top as well as under them." 

I hate her, I hate her so much! but that annoying normie has a point. It would be faster if we worked together, now that we both know the other won't shrug the labour off. "I'll dig; you prepare the trees", I say and move to the next spot.

*

Why am I always stuck with these artsy, narcissistic types? Even the way she sits is infuriating, manspreading in her torn jeans, unnatural hair and scuffed boots, judging me for not occupying enough space. She ensures we all know she is not listening to the corrections officer. She is visible and visibly bored as she doodles in the dirt with the heel of her shoes, her next 'masterpiece, perhaps. 

But everything need not be a fucking masterpiece! Sometimes it is okay just to be alright. Things will not work if every cog hogs the attention. Some things need to work quietly and consistently. The world doesn't owe you its attention; your demands for it come across as petulance. I wish I could say any of these things to the jerks back at the office who hold up every document for not being "engaging and creative enough". Listen, I am sorry that the excellence of others or the want of courage from you has thwarted your literary ambitions. I am genuinely sorry that you now write technical documentation for a technology you barely understand, but none of this concerns me. No, I don't care that everyone misunderstands you. No, I don't want to listen to your 'real' work, and No, I will not be in awe of your 'talent'. All I see is a mediocre writer who has flawed self-awareness. While I don't have the impish desire to bring this to their attention, I also don't have the patience to put up with their borrowed opinions and bold jewellery. The clinking of some brings me back to the dirt patch next to the road, where she is busy shovelling dirt on my shoes. I can read it clearly in her; she thinks she is different with her hundred chains and artistically poor clothes. She has already cast me into the role of a prissy, tidy snob and feels a bit of mud will send me running.

Well, darling, whatever floats your boat. I just need to finish my hours and move on with life. But what can I do about that ugly paint on my car? That's what brought me here, one giant flow of nauseous green paint dripping over the side of my defenceless car. I am sure the idiot who did it would call it "motor envy" or some such nonsense. The police later told me that this person had been targeting other cars over the last few weeks. Still, it came at the end of an unhinged day at the office, so I uncharacteristically kicked a nearby bike into the adjacent store window. That qualified me for a dozen apologies and two dozen hours of community service, the first few of which were spent in a silent struggle with Lady Karmilla Krampus before I asked her her name. After the initially satisfying shock, Good Ol' Kris finally seemed to realise that it would be best to work together and thankfully stayed quiet after.    

*

We are near the end of the row; just two more trees left. Krissy pats the earth around one while I get the last tree from the pick-up. The Officer nods to me. "You guys did quite well", she says. "Go to the office before you leave. They will give you the next assignments. You have sixty more hours, and she has twelve." I drag the tree back to where Krissy stands, and we continue working. I still wonder what her crime was—drunk and disorderly? Shoplifting? Nothing too exciting, I am sure. I didn't know if I wanted her to know mine. She didn't seem the type who would appreciate it. You see, I had recently gotten into pouring paint down White Toyota Corollas as a part of my Corporate Greed Collection. From what I see, I am doing the owners a service, turning their ugly, run-of-the-mill cars into art. They were part of something unique now, not just factory born. They are baptised in paint, a beautiful Ninja Turtle Green. But no good deed goes unpunished, and they caught me at my sixth car. The bike rack beside the car proved an obstacle, and the cops had no problem detangling me from the fallen bikes. 

After the last tree, we dumped the tools in the pick-up and dusted ourselves off. Back at the office, we got the next assignments, Krissy was to work at the library, and I had to paint some school walls. We said our half-hearted goodbyes and walked out into the parking lot. As I opened the trunk of my car, the pungent smell of leftover paint hit me in the face. I turned to see if Krissy noticed it. She did. She stood staring at me next to a White Toyota Corolla with beautiful green paint poured over the driver's side. Oh, Shi-