"Unappreciated load of crap." mumbles Sawyer, one of Walmart's official pessimistic cashiers. An uproar sends his foot hurling towards his aluminum lunch box, and he traipsed towards it. His enervated eyes droop out of their sockets just like the neighbor's ancient dog who's barks echo through the paper thin walls of his beat up apartment. His stupid teenage coworker glances at him with a smoke in his hand a the finger in the other, waiting for a ride. Sawyer keeps walking along the enduring sidewalk with a torn, brown dress shoe, after a yellowed sneaker. As he reaches his door, he fumbles for his key as time starts to consume him. He gives up and slams his head on his graffiti covered door. It opens. He steps in, realizing his grasp on his lunch box. He slumps over his pistachio couch that he openly paid a grand total of zero dollars and zero cents for. Dumb, rich family threw it out by the trash and he helped himself. Within half of a his deep breath, he collapsed into sleep with his, "Hello! My name is Sawyer." name tag bolted on his chest. BEEP! BEEP! BLEAP! BE...eeeeep. Darn alarm clock hasn't gotten over its cold since last month, but now, it's a goner. Sawyer pulls a wedgie out and gets off of the couch. A yawn escapes from him and he rapidly waves his hand across his breath. A four hundred dollar paycheck doesn't come easy so he walks out of the apartment-empty handed. No food in the fridge anyways. Or breeze to keep it cool. When he arrives at Walmart he already starts ringing up cans of cat food and loaves of bread. Then the stupid teenager comes over and does the same thing. Just like his dad, Sawyer.
The Tragic Tale of Sawyer, the Loo-zer
June 25, 2013