Back at the gas station today, I was reminded why it had taken me so long to finally make the decision to try for a job at Open Harvest.

When the manager asked if I had gotten it, I told him I had, and proceeded to tell a little about the interview.

When I mentioned about time off for the holiday being virtually the only thing that made them take an hour to decide instead of five minutes, "and by the way, I need to talk about that with you too."

Immediately, he said, "No problem at all. I figured you would probably be wanting to go back to Colorado for the holiday season, and there are always people around here looking to get more hours during the holidays, so whatever days you need, it will be fine."

A cynical observer might suspect he was saying this simply because he feared that if I grew the slightest bit dissatisfied, I might jump ship completely, so he may as well give me what I want instead of losing an employee. Except for the fact he's always been nice like that, long before any of this even came up. When I asked for time off to go to the megafest, it was "no problem". (Even though I would later learn that things did get fairly hectic while I was gone.)

I went ahead and told him that if it ever comes down to Open Harvest offering me a 30+ hour/week position (effectively meaning I would have to quit the gas job in order to accept), I would be very torn about it, because I like working at both places so much in different ways.

Later in the afternoon, when S came to work, she told me that her husband absolutely loved the bean dip I had given them. (Background: Last Tuesday, I made bean dip. Since I recalled hearing her talk about how much her husband likes spicy food, I decided to bring a container of it to work to send with her.)

She said he wanted the recipe. Oh boy, here we go. I explained that strictly speaking, there is no recipe, but I would bring in the rough estimates regarding what I put in it. (I'll probably write down something along the lines of this, but modify it to more closely resemble the version I gave them.)

She herself had tried one bite of it, and found the flavor good, but said it was way too spicy to eat. Despite the fact that I made it quite a bit less spicy than usual this time, this is unsurprising, since she considers unadulterated nacho sauce from Taco Bell to be the most spicy thing she can handle. She's worse than my mom!

But on this night, I had brought something else in that she would like herself. Whenever I'm sitting at work eating my raw, unpeeled table carrots, and I offer her one, she might or might not accept, but she talks about how much she likes the little baby carrots better.

Well, last Wednesday, I just happened to notice that there were several packages of organic baby carrots in the writeoff fridge, so I grabbed one.

As of this morning, I still hadn't opened it, and I'm sitting here thinking, "You know, between the bean dip I made this week, the cereal that M gave us at the Jewel Heart meeting a couple weeks ago (which also had its origins at the great and mighty co-op), all the other free writeoff food I've got sitting around here, plus the stuff I bought because I love it, like cashews and Shadowbrook farm spinach, I've got more food that I know what to do with. It's time to give something away!"

So the package of unopened baby carrots went to my illustrious gas station coworker, to which she smiled and said she would definitely eat them. Another building block of community.

Here's my confession: When she talks about the great deals she found on chicken, macaroni, or shoes at Wal Mart, I cannot bring myself to even mention my true feelings about that place, or other temples of satanic corporatism that resemble it. I cannot criticize somebody who is trying to raise three little kids and go to school while they work two jobs; I cannot fault her for trying to find the lowest price.

Even if I were to get past my instinctive aversion to confrontation, I fear that the best I could do by talking would be to make her feel guilty for shopping there, and she doesn't need that extra burden. Or, maybe she would feel enough guilt to stop shopping there, and then have an even harder time making ends meet because of it. So I nod, grunt, and keep my opinions to myself.

Then I go to Open Harvest, where we can joke and scheme about the best way to defeat the Beast of Bentonville. What else is an introverted pathological idealist to do?

It occurs to me that maybe I am meant to keep one foot in both worlds for a while. Or, if you're not into interpreting synchronistic events as a manifestation of Divine Will, maybe it's simply the best path for me right now because my center can be found in all these places. And maybe there is some good I can do at the gas station beyond merely using it as a source of income. Even if it's an act so tiny as handing somebody a bag of carrots.

But I was also reminded today of why I hate my job. It happened when a man came in and handed me several powerball form sheets with which to generate tickets. In addition to the powerball stuff, he also purchased several scratchoffs. In total, the bill came to 22 dollars. He stood at the counter and scatched his tickets. None of them were winners.

"Well, give me another one of each."

I did my job, and took his money. Another $7.

He scratched those. The cheaper $2 ticket had won a break-even prize. He pulled four quarters out of his pocket, and asked for a $3 ticket to replace it. After that, I lost count.

He kept this up for a quite a while, sometimes winning a little, which he then proceeded to spend on even more expensive tickets. Interspersed with his transactions, I must have waited on at least another 4 or 5 customers at the other register. Then it was back to the gambler, who obviously had a very large pocket full of quarters (steadily shrinking).

It was also obvious to me that he was becoming increasingly frustrated. Whenever the small winnings dried up, he would reluctantly pull several more dollars worth of quarters from his pocket, sometimes asking for another of the same game, other times going for a different one in hopes it would bring him better luck.

I was about ready to cry. I just wanted his money to hurry up and run out so he would leave, and then maybe I could be put out of my misery as a participant in this pathetic drama.

Eventually, one of his $10 tickets won him $21 dollars. He spent one dollar for another cheap ticket, took the other $20 in cash, then left. At least he didn't leave with nothing.

Even after he left, as I rang up another customer, I could feel the tears welling up in my eyes. I did my best to blink them away so I could do my job and get on with life.

...

I told myself I'd go to bed early tonight. I also told myself I'd call mom, as it's been ages since we last talked. (In fact, I don't think I've done so since the last visit in September.) In between writing parts of this, I made myself a delicious pasta supper and ate it.

Now, if I hurry up and call, I might get through before she goes to bed. Then, I'll get some sleep of my own, as scifi myths of the nascent post-apocalyptic future dance through my head.