I wore the hat because I had to. And because I secretly liked it. I didn’t tell my employees, of course. I simply bitched about the establishment and ‘the man’ and how ‘they’ didn’t have to wear caps whilst ‘they’ gorged on lobster and ashed Cuban cigars over their ancient Californian Redwood desks in their plush fully furnished offices whilst WE did the hard stuff. But then the truth was exposed. Rubella, part time customer disenchantress extraordinaire, caught me posing in front of the mirror in the tea room. So, to save face, I made up an elaborate story about how I actually had a crush on the managing director, and seeing as the cap fiasco was ‘his baby’ I was merely endorsing the promotion because I thought he was dreamy. Luckily she didn’t question me further, she just snorted derisively at me and swished past to her locker, where she discarded her cap inside and scurried off to lunch.

Cleatus liked the caps because he thought they made him even less conspicuous than he already was. He could pull it down low, pretend he was invisible and rock out with an air drum solo to the occasional Living End song that had been sneakily inserted (by forces unknown) into the music program (albeit accompanied on either side by Fergal Sharkey’s ‘A Good Heart’ and Dave Dobbins’ ‘Slice of Heaven’). FastTalker, with his immaculately pressed pants and shirt (the arm creases always in the right spot! On *both* sides!) looked like a Mormon in his. Nothing out of place. Eerily presentable. Eugene avoided everyone at all times. He resorted to darting about the store at the speed of light, lest being noticed and questioned by management as to the whereabouts of his hat. If caught, he would shrug noncommittally and mumble something about it being in his locker, under his register, in the stockroom, in the office, on the highest peak of the Alps. Heaven forbid one of his mates walk past the front of the store and see him wearing a promotional cap. He would be ruined. Ruined! He’d never be able to show his face in the KFC parking lot again. Billy Ray, of course, outright refused to wear his. Said that they couldn’t make him. Said he’d wear it for the GM’s visit, for the one hour that he’d be there, and that would be it.

The GM was nice. Intimidating. Short. Handsome. He shook my hand and asked if I was excited about the transitional phase that the company was going through. Made jokes about the Thunderbirds that I didn’t understand because…I was born after 1962. I still laughed, though. Dutifully. When he had gone, my Area Manager told me how impressed he had been with us. With me. In my hat.

The thing about hats is that they hide the top half of your face. Cast a shadow over the eyes. The thing about eyes is that they are a true indication of what you’re thinking, what you’re feeling, who you are. You can smile, but if your eyes don’t smile too, people can tell that you’re a fraud. I look at myself in the mirror and I see it - the vacant sheen. There’s nothing there right now. As much as it would be nice to vent about the shite my family has been through over the past nine months; the goodbye, the Alzheimer’s, the appalling state of the aged care system; I can’t bring myself to detail the intricacies of it all. That makes it too tangible.

It’s easy to write down words. It’s harder to make them mean something - but in the interest of self indulgence (as blogging for the most part, is an act of self indulgence) - I will say that I’m simply waiting for my sense of humour to come back on a more permanent basis.

Or perhaps another in store promotion involving a hat.

Guilty:

Of being frivolous with my money.

Of having impure thoughts about a nineteen year old employee.

Of watching said employee as he lifts heavy cartons and sighing a lot.

Of getting frustrated with her when she calls for the fifth time in one night - even though I know she can’t remember the previous phone calls, and it’s not her fault.

Of being a bad person.

Of loving Keanu Reeves movies even though he may as well be holding a script in his hand and simply reading it aloud and having a puppet master control his movements.

Of wondering how it is exactly that my life came to be at this moment in time.

Of being impatient.

Of hating people who barter incessantly in nonsensical places. Like Supermarkets. And Discount Variety Retail. The prices are set, people. Either pay them, or trudge thousands of kilometres and use litres of fuel (thus rendering your carbon footprint more so a carbon bitch slap) ‘shopping around’.

Of knowing that I don’t really do anything to combat the ‘insolent retail worker’ stereotype.

Of not finishing all the books I’ve professed to have read.

Of lying, really.

Of quasi stalking a quasi celebrity.

Of developing a violent twitch when that horrific “Bleeding Love’ song seeps through the speaker system at work.

Of not spending enough time with her, and letting other people shoulder too much of the burden.

Of calling her a ‘burden’, even though she’s family .

Of feeling dark and wretched and hating myself for calling her a ‘burden’ even though I love her.

Of wondering when all this monotony and routine will end.

Of wishing someone would rescue me from it.

Of keeping secrets.

Of preferring to curl up with a book more often than go out dancing and drinking with friends.

Of being afraid of the dark.

Of being afraid, in general.

Of singing ‘The Rainbow Connection’ in the shower.

Of knowing all the words to the theme of ‘The Muppet Show’.

Of  mentioning Muppets far too often. It's a compulsion.

Of neglecting to finish the half finished paintings in my garage, the half finished dress hanging behind my bedroom door, the half finished letters on my desk.

Of denying that I’m disorganised and fickle, even though all the evidence gathered and subjected to intense scrutiny suggests otherwise.

Of watching ‘Gladiators’ on television.

Of liking it.

Of wanting so much more than this, but not knowing what.