Read Blood and Guts in High School for Free Online Page B

falling shelf- body.)
    Because I work I am nobody. The bakery has many customers. Hippies have ideals and sell good cookies cheap. As soon as I dare to take the time to think a thought, to watch a feeling, usually hatred, develop, to rest my aching body, a customer enters.
    It was as if he had risen before me, I read, a man who, in his wild and passionate youth, had been the idol of Madrid and a source of dismay to his parents. He had carried away, by violence, a nun from a convent, incurring the enmity of the Church and the displeasure of his
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    Sovereign. He had followed desire regardless of anything else and survived. To see. To see the nothingness. That is vision. He had sacrificed all his fortune in Europe to the service of his king, had fought against the French, had a price put on his head by special proclamation. He had known passion, power, war, exile, and love. He had been thanked by his returned king, honoured for his wisdom, and crushed with sorrow by the death of his young wife.
    A twenty-six-year-old English-accented Parisian hippy worked the
    counter with the Lousy Mindless Salesgirl. The hippy never did any work because she had to spend all her time finding out from the customers what she should do with her life and how she was going to be creative. 'Why do you smile at everyone?' the hippy asked the Lousy
    Mindless Salesgirl while the latter was desperately trying to read just one page.
    'Why shouldn't I smile?'
    ' You don't really like everyone, do you? You shouldn't act nice if you don't feel like it.'
    'How should I act?'
    'Act like you feel. You don't want to be a hypocrite.'
    'I don't feel anything.' The Lousy Mindless Salesgirl wanted to kill the stupid hippy.
    'Then don't smile and be nice to customers.'
    'I'm being paid to smile.'
    'You're acting hypocritically, Janey. It's because you're male-centred. Look at me. I don't smile when I don't feel like it and I don't go out of my way to help anyone.'
    Just then a middle-aged shrivelled man walked into the bakery. 'Can I have a glass of wheat-grass juice?' he asked. Lousy Mindless Salesgirl: Certainly, sir. (She runs around the counter to
    get a paper cup, runs back around the counter, down on her hands and
    knees to get the juice out of the front fridge, stands to pour, down on her
    hands and knees to put the juice away, back to standing.) Here you are,
    sir. Middle-aged Shrivelled Man: Did you know that this juice kills all the
    diseases in the world if you drink enough of it? It kills cancer. In the
    Bible Nebuchadnezzar ate grass and cured all of his afflictions. Twenty-year-old Whore-like Jew Lady (entered the bakery while Lousy
    Mindless Salesgirl was making the wheat-grass run. Standing very close
    to Lousy Mindless Salesgirl): What do you do? Lousy Mindless Salesgirl: What do you mean 'What do I do?' Twenty-year-old Whore-like Jew Lady: How else do you make your
    money? Are you a whore? Lousy Mindless Salesgirl: No. I go to school. A Wispy Blonde Hippy Girl: I want that cooky and that cooky and two
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    of those and, is that one soft, I'll take that one. And a loaf of round
    bread. (As the Lousy Mindless Salesgirl's climbing on the shelf to get the
    bread.) Do you like your job? Lousy Mindless Salesgirl: It's OK. Wispy Blonde Hippy Girl: Is something the matter with this job? Are
    you discontent? Lousy Mindless Salesgirl: I'm not in love with handing out cookies
    and taking money four hours a day. It's OK. Wispy Blonde Hippy Girl: If you took more of an interest in the bakery,
    went inside to see how the cookies are made, talked to the customers
    more, maybe you'd like this job better. Lousy Mindless Salesgirl: When I'm here, I'm being paid to take care
    of the customers, and otherwise I don't have any time. I have to do
    my homework. Wispy Blonde Hippy Girl: Oh, I see. You have your own thing. (As
    the wispy blonde hippy walks out of the bakery, the Parisian hippy says:
    'You're rude.') Lousy Mindless Salesgirl: Why am Irude? Parisian Hippy