Hit! This work has been published in the Teen Ink monthly print magazine.


"Hey! Danny! Lead this train!"

"What, can't do it, Superman?"

"Danny! Just do it. Please!"

It was a normal dayat work, one of those that dragged on and on. Danny was a co-worker, one of thoseguys who just worked and didn't do much. This was not a normal day, though, as Icame close to death, thanks to a 1988 Lincoln Town Car. Well, sort of. The onlynoticeable damage to the car was the dent my shoulder left in thehood.

Early that afternoon, before my horrific encounter with that blastedLincoln, I clocked in and my manager gave me something I didn't expect: aluminescent orange shirt. My manager thought they were a great idea; Danny and Idecided it was cruel and unusual punishment. I felt like I was part of the countychain gang hired to work at Wal-Mart.

As we went outside, I could feeleveryone staring at us and asking stupid questions like, "Where are thehandcuffs?" and, my favorite, "Which way to the jail?" We split upand I was finally in my asphalt jungle. When I stepped through the Food Centerentrance and felt the hot July air, I knew this shift was going todrag.

Finally, it was the last hour. I was ecstatic. With only one morehour, the whole store felt like it was mine. Danny and I were almost doneclearing the lot.

At last, the final bin of shopping carts. I was almostfinished with my work day at the only place on earth, or the universe, for thatmatter, that I didn't want to be. As I walked to the bin, I thought, Man, I hopethere are only two carts in there, but with my stinking luck, there were too manyto count. We gathered them into a row, heading for the nearest vestibule.

"Alright, rock, paper, scissors," Dannystarted.

"Hey, you know I suck at that stupid game," Icomplained, but this was how we decide who got the job of pushing the"train" of carts. Well, apparently Danny had been practicing. I threwthe devastating blow of "rock," and out of nowhere, Danny pulled asneaky trick and threw a "paper." I thought my world was going to end.I had to push the last train of carts.

As I neared the handicap parkingarea, out of the corner of my eye I saw a flash of white. I thought it must beGod coming to get me for all the bad things I have done in my life, but, no, itwas a Lincoln, with a full head of steam coming right at me. That hell-mobile wasdriven by a spawn of Satan, a demon that had no limits. That witch on wheels wasa 75-year-old woman.

As she plowed into my leg I felt a sharp painradiate through my thigh. I fell on top of the car with a heavy thud. It felt asif my shoulder went straight through the hood.

After I rolled off thecar onto the hot pavement, the witch stepped out and asked,"Are you okaythere?" I wanted to yell and scream at the old bat, give her a piece of mymind. How could you hit a 6'1" guy in a bright orange shirt? She must have beenblind. There is no doubt about it. The DMV screwed up by giving that old coot adriver's license. Instead of throwing a temper tantrum and rolling aroundscreaming that I was in a lot of pain, I simply replied, "Yes."

With that she promptly proceeded across the lot, parked and went into thestore without giving me a second thought.

A really sore shoulder forseveral days after was my reward for that hard day's work. I still wear thoseugly orange shirts, but when I see a Town Car headed my way, I run for cover.




This work has been published in the Teen Ink monthly print magazine. This piece has been published in Teen Ink’s monthly print magazine.






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