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Justine Giardina

They didn’t actually pay us on our breaks, but typically if you were in a rush to get back to work, especially on a Saturday night during rush hour, it wasn’t out of eagerness to collect an extra five minutes’ pay. The sixty-six cents that one could make working five minutes on minimum wage was not worth any extra time spent having to serve fast food. If you came back early from the safe haven of the crusty McDonald’s break room, it was usually because you cared about whoever was stuck alone at the front counter and understood the insufferable experience they were probably having with the entourage of impatient customers.

The particular coworker I was going back for was my favorite coworker—a tiny Hispanic woman named Virginia who always wore a black polo from the uniform for a different fast food company and had a charming, wide smile filled with crooked teeth. Late on a Tuesday Virginia told me that she was a single mother and hadn’t spoken any English when she landed in the US, carrying nothing but one bag and her fatherless infant son. She told me how hard it was to learn English and she told me that I’d better go to school and make something of myself and then she told me that I had brewed the coffee wrong again and certainly wouldn’t last there much longer, repeating again that I’d better get myself into school.

When I got to the front counter there was some sort of scene unfolding. I wasn’t outrageously surprised, and I shouldn’t have been because throwing a tantrum at McDonald’s is the only thing upper-middle-class people like more than coffee. I still hurried over, motivated by a curiosity I can only compare to the way that people driving cars slow down to stare at a car accident like it’s some sort of show.

The woman on the opposite side of the counter was blonde and white, a scarf tied fashionably around her neck and a tan pea coat knotted fashionably around her waist so tight that it seemed if you untied it the top half of her body would fall right off the bottom half. When I approached the counter a smile of relief spread across her face and she looked up at me thankfully, as though we were on the same tag team and I had finally come to relieve her and let her step out of the boxing ring.

“What’s wrong?” I asked a haggard Virginia, but the blonde woman answered instead, jumping up like a child answering a petty question in a classroom. She answered with great zest, as though she had been eagerly waiting for someone to listen to her talk all day.

“She’s trying to take extra money for herself,” she said, matter-of-factly. She spoke to me as though I am in charge of Virginia, a woman fifteen years my senior with years more work experience than I have.

Virginia said nothing. I looked to the register, a glaring “$7.87” staring back at me. I then turned my eyes to her order, a large cappuccino with some sort of specialty sauce drizzled over a layer of whipped cream at the top, and a meal enclosed in a white bag. I begin to sort through her items and before I can finish she has shoved the screen of her iPhone on the counter saying, “I added it up. It should be seven dollars.”

Later I would pick out exactly what words were apt to yell across the counter. Later I would list vocabulary just harsh and true enough to hurt. “Entitled” would be at the top of the list. “Insufferable little priss” would be somewhere down the line. Later I would think about standing up to that woman and calling out her bigotry, protecting someone who didn’t have the privilege to protect

herself. I would think about all of the contents of the sceneI would throw at McDonald’s. But in that moment I did nothing. I was not a hero.

“Tax.” I replied quietly. Her determined look melted to an expression of realization. “You didn’t factor in tax.”

The woman stuttered something and fished out the remaining change, something you might give to a child to buy milk with or put into a gumball machine, but of course something my coworker, a woman working two eight-hour shifts at two disgusting fast food restaurants each day to make an honest living, would try to steal out of her cashmere pockets.

“Have a nice day.” Virginia said. I wished she hadn’t, but the store’s pleasantry policy does not make exceptions for racists.

That night an article about the bystander effect would come across my computer screen and I would close the window and pretend I hadn’t seen it at all.

Discussion Questions

• Why would somebody want to read this piece (the “Who cares?” factor)? • Can you clearly identify the author’s intention for the piece?

• How well does the author support the intention of the piece? Cite specific details that support or take away from the author’s intention.

• Is there information missing from this piece that would make its intention clearer? What else would you like to know?

• Does the author portray herself as a round character? How does she do this? • Do you trust the author of this piece? Why or why not?

• How clearly does the author establish a sense of setting/space in this piece? Cite specific details that support your claim.

• How clearly does the author establish characters other than the self in this piece? Cite specific details that support your claim.

• Did you learn anything new from reading this piece? If so, what?

• Are there particular passages with engaging language/description that stood out to you? Describe the appeal of these passages.

A-Relief

Hannah Lajba

Everything is white and my leggings are pulled down to my kneecaps. Artificial florals invade my nostrils at every breath I take, which is many, short gasps urging myself to just forget where I am, what is happening just outside that door. I am nervous, a ball of sweat drips from my temple, can they hear me if I can hear them? The clamoring of the kitchen staff cleaning up our latest meal combined with the laughing and yelling of the girls just on the other side make me clench.

Hello, my name is Hannah and I, for the most part, am no longer a shy bladder sufferer. It started my junior year when going on a class trip to the Renaissance fair. It was the midway point of the three-hour journey and, to be blunt, I had to pee. Getting up from the polyester printed bus seat the urge became full force. I went to the last open stall and, unfortunately, it was the handicapped stall. We all feel guilty when using that one; what if someone needs it and then here we are, using it? I think it was the regret, and also that large gap in the door, anyone could just look in and see me center front. It was a good five minutes of thinking of waterfalls, lakes, and streams while trying to use my imagination to hear the dripping of a tap, but nothing, and I gave up. Surprisingly, at my body’s dire need of relief, I was able to go into the dirt-floored fly mating ground that is a Renaissance Fair toilet. Luckily my stall at least had toilet paper.

Funny how the exact same thing happened the next year, but no longer—or that’s what I tried to tell myself. I pondered my condition, even Googled and Yahoo answered it, and the revelation came: if I drink more liquids, my body will learn to retain them better. Fun fact: I also suffer from small bladder syndrome. The thing is though I never got around to testing out my theory; who would want to deal with having to pee every half hour?

There is a fell voice in the air—no, not Saruman but Zac Efron. I listen closer, arching my body towards the door, “Bet on it, bet on it.” Suddenly my mind is filled with the rolling green hills of a golf course and young, shaggy-haired Troy Bolton dashing about in all black. I hear my internal voice say ‘Do it for Zac, Hannah’ to which I reply, ‘Please God let me pee!’ and He answers. It is my own little golden waterfall; the sigh of relief that leaves my lips comes out like music to the heavens. ‘T-God for Zac Efron.’ I pull up my leggings, the sweat evaporating and the nerves going down the drain with the soapy suds. I do one final touch-up on my hair before exiting, seeing the line of bladder-exploding girls my untimely visit has caused.

Discussion Questions

• Why would somebody want to read this piece (the “Who cares?” factor)? • Can you clearly identify the author’s intention for the piece?

• How well does the author support the intention of the piece? Cite specific details that support or take away from the author’s intention.

• Is there information missing from this piece that would make its intention clearer? What else would you like to know?

• Does the author portray herself as a round character? How does she do this? • Do you trust the author of this piece? Why or why not?

• How clearly does the author establish a sense of setting/space in this piece? Cite specific details that support your claim.

• How clearly does the author establish characters other than the self in this piece? Cite

specific details that support your claim.

• Did you learn anything new from reading this piece? If so, what?

• Are there particular passages with engaging language/description that stood out to you? Describe the appeal of these passages.

Memory/Character Essay: