Shop Girl
Originally Featured on the Official SG Blog
You know that moment when the checkout girl asks How are you? with that practised, hollow, melodic inflection & tone, looking up at you from their station with a labored soulless smile? I see through the aesthetic delusion, to the evident sadness that lies within their corneas, the timing of the rise & fall of the smile. But as the smile rises, there comes a moment of mathematic possibility in the way the corners of their mouths meet their cheekbones, and for a split second an entire world of individual personality is brought to life. I try to keep this window of a smile open, by encouraging it with my own genuine smile.
For the record, Im a pretty smiley kind of guy, and its usually my first instinct to smirk at anyone or anything either out of politeness or awkwardness. Obviously this was not received well when my ex told me her cat had died; she started to believe I was some kind of sick, sadistic bastard. But I just have no idea how to handle situations like that.
Anyway, cut back to Sarah, the Woolworths girl & myself, in a hot, sticky, long line of irritated waiting customers in the Summer of 2003. She had thrown this question at me through slightly crooked, adorable teeth, and the raising of eyebrows upon a slightly sweaty forehead. Maybe it was the pleasant warmth of the afternoon, the fact I had just graduated, or the fact I just found her incredibly cute; saying good just feltwrong. Plus Ive never truly believed anyone when theyve said it to me, it just seems the epitome of indifference, and how could I possibly lie to dear Sarah?
So it was during this momentary purchase of soda water & BBQ sauce that a revelation occurred. I poured my heart out to this girl, with a slight overlay of deliberate charm and whimsy, I was egotistical enough to believe this fine, young girl deserved and would somehow appreciate a serving of genuine Jules. Dear Sarah responded kindly enough and seemed shocked when I asked her how she was. The idea that someone would sling her own question back at her was beyond comprehension. So for three minutes, twenty seconds, & the price of a soft drink & a moment of altruism, I was rewarded with a glorious, momentary insight into the world of a Shop Girl. From this, a tradition was born. With great purchase comes great conversation.
For a while I went off and lived my own life, and forgot about my humble reaching out to the Universe in the spirit of humanity. But there came a time called the Preston Road Saga, a period of two years that I had moved out with my girlfriend of the time, before realising she was, indeed, crazy. During these dark years of debts & domestic affairs, I returned to the solace of the solitary Shop Girl, finding comfort in the stories of others lives, like curling up in bed with a new novel. I even deluded myself during these transactions of time that there lay, deep down, a genuine Connection. In hindsight, I was opening the door to the Stalkers #1 excuse & justification.
I was a lonely man, and the mall was my red light district. I treated those poor girls like prostitutes, paying them, indirectly for a moment of their time, so that they would appease me with a smile and a moment of small talk. But I felt dirty. Where did I go wrong? How did I get from that one rare moment of time where everything was aligned, and I knew beyond any doubt that dear Sarah meant every word, to these stunted, stilted, separate moments of awkwardness?
I realised I was the problem. The chemistry was wrong. With Sarah, the timing was just right, and I was already in such a great mood that the so called charm just flowed naturally. But from then onwards, It had become too automated, forced even. I was trying desperately to make the square fit the circle, and the circle could sense some weird vibes and just did not fucking appreciate it. From this secondary revelation, came an addendum to the tradition: Just Let It Be, Dude.
To this day, this, I dont like calling it a rule, so much as a polite gesture I make sure to apply; thisgesture has opened up a whole world of exciting possibilities for me, in which for at least five minutes every day, I get to chat to a pretty girl, under some assumed context of either groceries or liquor purchases, without any social anxiety that usually comes from seeing a cute girl on the street, but there never being a reason good enough to initiate conversation & therefore run the risk of seeming a perverted creep.
So every day the thing I look forward to most are the little mundane things that most people try to get out of the way as quickly as possible, like stopping by the supermarket for milk & asking Tabitha how her Uni course is progressing, or stopping by Berkolouw Books in Cronulla to buy a new $10 Penguin Classic to have a chance to bask in the glorious sweetness of the new half-deaf girl they hired, and boy.does it make my day.
Hopefully one day, Ill meet my Mirabelle.
Originally Featured on the Official SG Blog
You know that moment when the checkout girl asks How are you? with that practised, hollow, melodic inflection & tone, looking up at you from their station with a labored soulless smile? I see through the aesthetic delusion, to the evident sadness that lies within their corneas, the timing of the rise & fall of the smile. But as the smile rises, there comes a moment of mathematic possibility in the way the corners of their mouths meet their cheekbones, and for a split second an entire world of individual personality is brought to life. I try to keep this window of a smile open, by encouraging it with my own genuine smile.
For the record, Im a pretty smiley kind of guy, and its usually my first instinct to smirk at anyone or anything either out of politeness or awkwardness. Obviously this was not received well when my ex told me her cat had died; she started to believe I was some kind of sick, sadistic bastard. But I just have no idea how to handle situations like that.
Anyway, cut back to Sarah, the Woolworths girl & myself, in a hot, sticky, long line of irritated waiting customers in the Summer of 2003. She had thrown this question at me through slightly crooked, adorable teeth, and the raising of eyebrows upon a slightly sweaty forehead. Maybe it was the pleasant warmth of the afternoon, the fact I had just graduated, or the fact I just found her incredibly cute; saying good just feltwrong. Plus Ive never truly believed anyone when theyve said it to me, it just seems the epitome of indifference, and how could I possibly lie to dear Sarah?
So it was during this momentary purchase of soda water & BBQ sauce that a revelation occurred. I poured my heart out to this girl, with a slight overlay of deliberate charm and whimsy, I was egotistical enough to believe this fine, young girl deserved and would somehow appreciate a serving of genuine Jules. Dear Sarah responded kindly enough and seemed shocked when I asked her how she was. The idea that someone would sling her own question back at her was beyond comprehension. So for three minutes, twenty seconds, & the price of a soft drink & a moment of altruism, I was rewarded with a glorious, momentary insight into the world of a Shop Girl. From this, a tradition was born. With great purchase comes great conversation.
For a while I went off and lived my own life, and forgot about my humble reaching out to the Universe in the spirit of humanity. But there came a time called the Preston Road Saga, a period of two years that I had moved out with my girlfriend of the time, before realising she was, indeed, crazy. During these dark years of debts & domestic affairs, I returned to the solace of the solitary Shop Girl, finding comfort in the stories of others lives, like curling up in bed with a new novel. I even deluded myself during these transactions of time that there lay, deep down, a genuine Connection. In hindsight, I was opening the door to the Stalkers #1 excuse & justification.
I was a lonely man, and the mall was my red light district. I treated those poor girls like prostitutes, paying them, indirectly for a moment of their time, so that they would appease me with a smile and a moment of small talk. But I felt dirty. Where did I go wrong? How did I get from that one rare moment of time where everything was aligned, and I knew beyond any doubt that dear Sarah meant every word, to these stunted, stilted, separate moments of awkwardness?
I realised I was the problem. The chemistry was wrong. With Sarah, the timing was just right, and I was already in such a great mood that the so called charm just flowed naturally. But from then onwards, It had become too automated, forced even. I was trying desperately to make the square fit the circle, and the circle could sense some weird vibes and just did not fucking appreciate it. From this secondary revelation, came an addendum to the tradition: Just Let It Be, Dude.
To this day, this, I dont like calling it a rule, so much as a polite gesture I make sure to apply; thisgesture has opened up a whole world of exciting possibilities for me, in which for at least five minutes every day, I get to chat to a pretty girl, under some assumed context of either groceries or liquor purchases, without any social anxiety that usually comes from seeing a cute girl on the street, but there never being a reason good enough to initiate conversation & therefore run the risk of seeming a perverted creep.
So every day the thing I look forward to most are the little mundane things that most people try to get out of the way as quickly as possible, like stopping by the supermarket for milk & asking Tabitha how her Uni course is progressing, or stopping by Berkolouw Books in Cronulla to buy a new $10 Penguin Classic to have a chance to bask in the glorious sweetness of the new half-deaf girl they hired, and boy.does it make my day.
Hopefully one day, Ill meet my Mirabelle.