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    I walked into the bookstore at a casual pace, sipping my drink, chewing on the straw lackadaisically as I did not rush down the stairs.
    â€œJeez, don’t you ever take a break?” I asked Ethan, who was sitting with his legs up on the receiving table with his eyes closed.
    â€œI’m afraid of intimacy so I bury myself in work,” he said, not opening his eyes.
    On Ethan’s computer was a website of old men who looked like lesbians. Keith Richards. Elton John. Al Franken.
    Justine came out of nowhere, like a ninja. “My ass hurts,” she said.
    â€œWhy’s that?” I asked, drawing a stick figure on the info table with black marker.
    â€œI got fucked in the ass last night,” she said.
    Justine and I hung out, but we weren’t The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants –type BFF s.
    Justine’s moment of glory was when this middle-aged woman had asked how the books were arranged, and Justine sang the alphabet at the top of her lungs.
    Justine labeled the stapler, “Lady Chatterley’s stapler.”
    Before I worked there, former employees had scrawled labels on the reshelving carts, “Who carted?” “Miss Lonelycarts,” and “O brother, where cart thou.”
    Justine told me, Ethan, and Mark about this piece of art that just sold for millions of dollars. You fed it food, and it turned it into shit. “I’ve been eating and shitting for free all these years like a sucker!” Ethan joked. Mark asked what would happen if you fed shit to it. Ethan said you would get more shit.
    â€œLike the same amount of shit or twice the amount of shit?” I asked. Everyone laughed.
    I gave the stick figure a hand and put a gun in it.
    â€œMaya,” Michelle said. “So I don’t know if you’ve heard, but they’re sending someone to take over the textbook department.” Michelle was the general manager. She grinned as she clapped her hands silently. I smiled back. She went on, “They’re going to expand this whole section. The counter will come out to here.” I didn’t look up to see where she was indicating because I didn’t give a shit.
    â€œYou must be happy you don’t have to deal with textbooks anymore,” I said, slurping melted ice.
    â€œI’ve worked my ass off at this store, and now all the burden and hassle of textbooks will be off my shoulders. I can finally make the store what I always wanted it to be. We can have readings!” she said, beaming and exposing her yellowed, plaque-laden front teeth. Michelle in her fuzzy sweaters, with her cozy beer gut and her slowly rotting teeth.
    â€œWow,” I said, trying to sound like I cared. My high was wearing off. My nose was a faucet that wouldn’t stop. I wiped snot on my sleeve.
    â€œListen, I have to go meet John for dinner,” Michelle said.
    â€œSomeplace fancy?” I asked. I wondered if it was obvious how much I didn’t care.
    â€œWe’re celebrating. He got a promotion.”
    â€œWhat does he do, again?”
    â€œHe does the same thing as Pete does on Mad Men ,” she said, sounding as if she had used that line several times before.
    Michelle had graduated from NYU , majoring in English, and she would work at this shitty job until she started having babies with her fat husband, and no one would wonder why she looked like shit.
    When you’re a fat girl and you make an effort with your clothes and hair, it’s like, “Why bother, you’re still fat.” Like you’re saying to the world you’re content with being fat. But if you just throwon sweatpants, you are this fat girl walking around in sweatpants. Have some self-respect. You can’t win.
    After Michelle left, my withdrawal got worse. I was left alone in textbooks. I called up to Mark at the register.
    â€œI have to take a huge dump.”
    â€œOkay, why are you announcing that to the store?” There was