Well, my first day on the new job went well. You wouldn't believe how many finniky details and endless forms a gas station cashier has to keep track of. *L* My trainer seemed to know everyone on a first name basis, too.
My new place of employment is the *only* place that's open 24 hours in an area that includes several towns and at least 3, probably 5, municipalites. So things are pretty steady all night. There are also regular busy times, like when one of the local bars lets out and we find ourselves inundated with boistrous partons followed by worn out staff wondering "is that blood on my shirt" while talking about the big fight just at closing time.
Then at about 4 am, the fishermen start showing up. Some come in groups as the whole crew swings through, while others come by in pairs or individuals. They fill their trucks and jerry cans with gas, buy lots of coffee, smokes, and a few pops, Sobe's, and snacks before a long day of fishing in the fog.
Some of these guys have obviously been plying their trade their whole lives. Years of working the lake in all weather leaves it's mark, and it's one that seems to be universally worn with dignitiy. These people know this lake intimately - it's one of the most dangerous freshwater lakes in the world to be on when the weather turns bad. There were a few young men, too, just beginning to show the lake's mark on their faces, plus the odd fresh faced teenager, just beginning their love affair with the lake. The fishermen remind me of farmers, actually. The lake obviously has a hold on them as strong as the land has on those who work the fields - a hold I still feel myself, even though I've been off the farm for almost 20 years. Land or water, it works it's way into the soul, then shines agelessly through eyes crinkled from years of squinting through sun and storm, steady and strong under wind ravaged hair.
One particular fisherman came in alone and got some gas and smokes. Obviously another long time fisherman. I was working the till, chatting with him, while my trainer stood by, also chatting. As the person moved around, I caught some movement under his t-shirt and relized I was looking at the most well developed set of moobs I've ever seen. I mean, this guy was no G-up, but he definately swung and hung as low as I ever did before my surgery. You just don't expect to see that around a woman's waistline, never mind a man's! *L* No big deal. I handed him his change, wished him a good day, and off he went. My trainer, who had been talking to him, then made a comment about how "she always comes by this time of the day."
Say what??? "She?!?!" Now, I've seen some androgynous people before. I've had conversations with clients and still found myself wondering "was I talking to a feminine looking man or a masculine looking woman?" I had no such sense of abiguity here. I had no inkling that I was talking to anyone other than another weather beaten, middle aged man. You'd think, having seen the swing, I would have clued in, but nope. Not even a little.
Now that I think back, that could have been an incredibly embaressing moment. *L*