Part Two
I left the store and went back to the one I was originally going to. I ate my lukewarm chicken chili cheese fries and my cold cup of meltshake.
I found the last copy of the book and read it and it was good. Of course it was good. It was the best book I had ever read by him. No, it was the best book I had ever read. Still is. It's my favourite book of all time. As soon as I finished it, I read it again and again.
It turned out, though, that the exclusive edition sold on the first day that it surprised everyone would never be reprinted. There were only ten thousand copies overall. The day after this, the author, Anthony Wellington, died from a heart condition he had been battling for years.
A week later, I saw online that somebody with the username College_gurl_Julia was selling the book I had come so close to buying for three hundred and fifty dollars. It was that Julia. I could tell by her profile picture.
I was overcome with anger and it overtook me. This anger welled up in me day after day, for forty days, until I finally decided to do something. I went to the restaurant where the woman who had taken the last copy worked, The Socialite, and when asked if I wanted to have a certain server, I asked for Julia.
I sat down at a booth, and saw what I knew would be there. A survey. For the server who had me. After she took my order of iced water and a nacho appetizer, apparently not recognizing me, I got to work.
Server Name: Julia
How would you rate your experience today? Zero out of 10.
What was your favourite part of your experience today? Leaving.
Would you recommend your server to a friend/colleague? Not unless they had stolen my girlfriend and left the country with her, and taken my job. And stolen my car.
Would you recommend The Socialite to a friend/colleague? See above.
Is there anything you would like to say that The Socialite could do better? Too much for space allotted.
What is the probability of you returning to The Socialite? Zero out of 10.
Only, I'm sad to say, I did return. I would wear sunglasses or a funky hat, or use a deeper voice. Every time I asked for Julia, and gave more unfavourable criticism. And whenever it asked for my name, I always fancily signed Anonymous.
On my sixth visit, right after work, like I did every Friday, I entered The Socialite to an unpleasant scene. Julia, purse in hand, out of uniform, was storming out of the front doors, being followed by her manager. She was almost in tears.
They were both yelling when I stopped by the entrance. I watched and waited for an oppurtune time to interject. It came when Julia told her manager she didn't know why she was always hated.
At this, I took off the sunglasses from my face and looked at Julia, tears streaming down her face. "Maybe it's because your a terrible, disgusting human being!"
She looked at me and gasped, but kept up her tone. "What kind of child are you? I took a book to read it and you didn't get it! This is my job that you took from me! I have student loans and an apartment to pay for, you monster!
"Are you struggling so much that you have to profit over a beloved author's death? Who is trhe real monster here?"
"You aren't even worth my time." She ran away, struggling in her high heels, to her ten-year-old pickup truck, and her tires screeched as she zoomed out.
I looked at the manager with the same gaze he gave me. Disbelief.
Then I got back in my sedan, left as well, and went home.
I opened the door, all of my feelings almost bubbling over, and put my keys down gently on the table. I got myself a glass of water, drank it all, refilled it, went in my room.
And thought about it.