Anti-Social Pessimist at a Gas Station

I am becoming more anti-social with age. It is an awful thing, for that tendency goes against my mother's point of view of the world and causes me inconvenience. She is an optimist, and I a pessimist. I've tried to convince her that I am a pessimist, but for some reason, as if it were a sin, she will not be persuaded that I have bad days. Her little angel is perfect and happy––and an optimist. This misunderstanding is most likely my fault. Selective information sharing with parents is to blame.

Small talk is one of the scariest things in the world. I do not see the point of discussing the boring things. I can see that the sky is black and stormy. Why must we discuss it? I am sure you can see it as well. And isn't the thunder booming, the lightning that crashed by your head exciting? What is happening is obvious. If I am queueing for something, do not talk to me. No one wants to be in line. Leave me alone with my thoughts. Otherwise, you may have to listen to me analyze those around me. You see that woman ahead of us, the fat one in the sky-blue shirt and too-tight jeans? Look at her. Now help me make fun of her. That is what happens when strangers talk to me. It is obvious when I don't want to talk. I stare into space or look like I'm concentrating. At those times, just bugger off. I am probably considering the meaning of life, why lightning likes to hit certain people repeatedly, how I would kill everyone in the room with only a beanie baby, or hoping really hard you stay far, far away so I do not have to talk to you.

I spent one summer job flipping burgers. Like all food service jobs, I was supposed to be extroverted and happy and willing to talk to everyone politely. I would have preferred something more dignified and academic––something better paying––but where I live, I was lucky to get even a minimum-wage job. I hated the place, the people, my coworkers and boss, the type of work––nearly all of it. By the time the summer ended, I did not want to see any of them again. The "deli"–gas station–convenience store–butcher house had the cheapest gas in the area and was situated so that my family has to pass it every time we go anywhere significant. I was not sure how long I would last.

I am proud of myself. In the last two and a half years, I have interacted with my past colleagues only once, and from a distance. In my situation, this was an achievement of sure, nearly sociopathic anti-social behavior. Through clever persuasion, I was able to stunt my parents' insistence that I did not burn any bridges. Through sheer stubbornness, I always sunk into my bucket seat so my old boss would not see me. However, this past Christmas Break, Mom needed gas. She pumped while I fetched the windshield fluid. Fantastic. I had to face my avoided demons.

I was surprised. The staff was entirely different but for two workers. I did not dedicate enough effort into memorizing their names in the first place, so I knew them only by face––but I knew them, and I remembered they were the only two I had genuinely liked. One of them did not recognize me, but the other may have. He seemed civil and made casual, brief, stoic small talk as he cashed me out at the register. Perhaps I should have payed more attention to his shy flirting when I worked there. Perhaps.

I learned things that day. I remembered once more that people cannot recognize me when I keep dyeing my hair. I learned that some small talk is not lethal. I learned that even if I loath people and think they'll see me if I show up in "their space," I may not even see them––so some risk-taking may be worth it, in case I ever need more windshield fluid.

Pessimists have their own form of optimism, an optimism that pure optimists will never understand, for their humor is not morbid enough to stomach it. That day, I was pessimistic and thought I would see the old bosses and have to talk to them. I told myself what I believed: small talk won't necessarily kill, and in any case, it is better than getting my arm cleaved off.