[I've decided to do a series of sorts on objects in my possession. I almost never throw anything away which carries some significance to me, but as long as no one else knows the significances it all looks like junk. Now you'll know it's all treasure. You will.]
Item: pinky ring, small circular green stone, a silver heart charm hanging from one side. Tiny metallic stars, small as confetti, attached to the loop that attaches the heart.
For my first job I worked at Wendy's, manning the salad bar, where someone came up every day and asked, "Excuse me, do you have any bacon bits?" After about the fifteenth time this question arose, it grew difficult to keep from answering through gritted teeth: "No. I do not have any bacon bits. Do I look like I have any bacon bits? Examine this salad bar carefully. Everything that can possibly had at the salad bar is clearly on display, and available for the taking, within the confines of the salad bar itself. Contrary to what you seem to be supposing, there is not top secret Bacon Bits Repository in the back to which I have denied you access out of sheer spite."
That's one thing I remember--endless streams of people coming up to my salad bar for the express purpose of asking "Excuse me. Do you have any bacon bits?" and then walking away disconsolately when the answer was no.
I also remember the piped-in music. Piped-in music is designed to calm and soothe patrons who only have to listen to it for however long they dawdle in a fast food establishment. It is not so calming and soothing to be subjected to it for seven hour stretches. There were three or four songs that I liked. When the place was empty and I was sweeping and Enya's "Orinoco Flow" or Simply Red's "Stars" came on, I'd retreat to a hidden corner and sway a little. I would call it an escape but really I spent most of my working existence daydreaming. One's mind tends to wander when one is called to do little more than clean remnants of hamburgers from tables or refill the lettuce or take the trash out to the fenced-in dumpster.
That's why I don't remember much about working there--I wasn't giving the experience a high level of concentration. I remember psyching myself for a day of toil by listening to The Nylons' Four on the Floor before I left. I remember chats with another smart misfit who worked in the back and listened to death metal at ear-piercing volumes on his headphones. But I don't remember, thankfully, hours upon hours of repetitive tasks.
Two things of value I took from that experience. One, I discovered that I cannot shirk my duties. Occasionally I gave in to the temptation of leaving some small thing undone at the end of my shift, and inevitably when I did so it caught up with me somehow. The other was the ring I found in the back of the restaurant, the part that is all windows, like a greenhouse. I claimed it like a soldier claims spoils. I couldn't justify being there all the time and not having some material reward.
Somehow I decided that besides the heart charm, the ring needed stars. I had stars of just the right size, all with little holes stamped in their middles, so I had a dexterous friend string them on for me.
And now the ring is in my jewelry drawer, never worn. I never wear jewelry.