No title -- No date

There, the last earring to be priced and put on the shelf. After two long days of setting up the Jewelry counter at my new job at Zayre in Elgin

After arranging the final display in the new jewelry department at Zayre, in Elgin, Bob and George, the district manager and district supervisor of the company behind the jewelry department, left for a coffee break. Bob, calling as he left, "Don't let anyone steal our jewelry now."

"No one is going to steal anything," I thought optimistically, while I polished the glass cabinets which held watches, lights and the more expensive jewelry.

When I was finished with the housekeeping, I stood behind the counter and tried to look like I'd been standing there for two years instead of two days. A few people bought things, and I rang up their purchases and gave them their change with no mishaps. All in all, everything was going very smoothly. A few women were milling around the various displays, chattering about how this or that looked. A man, tall and dark with a blue shirt was looking at the "genuine artificial" pukka shell necklaces. I had seen this man earlier that day in the store. He would be carrying a jacket or a pair of pants at one time and the next time nothing at all or something different.

Now the man was looking in one direction, then the other. He would pick up something and then put it back. He walked around the counter, still staring at people. For some reason I was careful not to catch his eye. I busied myself with straightening an already perfect display and figured that if I ignored this strange man he would go away. I suddenly caught myself -- what if the manager came back and I was being discourteous to a customer?

"Can I help you?" I asked the man, giving him a smile. He shook his head and continued swiveling his head, looking around the store.

After trying not to look self-conscious, I was startled by a loud rap on the glass cabinet at the end of the counter. Turning around, I saw that the stranger was now staring at me. I approached him and he pushed one of the fake pukka necklaces across the counter towards me. He shook his head. "Don't you want this?" I asked, wondering if he was deaf or couldn't talk for some reason. He shook his head again, but didn't open his mouth. I took the necklace and hung it on the peg it had come form and resumed my vigil at the cash register.

After about five more minutes, the man walked up to the register. He was still staring wildly around, mostly at the women in the jewelry department. He reached into his pocket with his right hand and while he groped for something there, with his left hand, handed me a wallet he had picked up off a shelf and said, "Now don't get nervous. Don't ring this up; I'm not buying it."

He looked around once more and slowly pulled his hand from his pocket. My heart was pounding as I watched his hand emerge from his pocket, expecting the worst.

"Oh thank God!" I thought, when I saw what he held in his hand was not a gun, but a black comb, three one dollar bills and some change.

"I'm security," he explained, "just give me a bag and make it look like this is real.

I pushed the total button on the cash register, put his "purchase" in a bag and stapled a fake receipt to the bag. As the tall, dark, "security" man walked away I felt my heart return to its normal spot in the center of my chest instead of in my throat where it had been for the past few minutes.

Note:
I vividly remember the security guard who was the basis for this story. It really did happen this way, although I'd forgotten the details until reading this.

The man was probably in his mid-twenties. He was tall and handsome in a foreign way. He told me he was from Hawaii and not Pakistan which is where the rest of the security guards were from.

Writing #7

At 2:00 yesterday afternoon I decided to go home early in case the bus came earlier than usual. As I approached the door I saw that the bus was already turning the corner coming to the bus stop, which I wasn't at, but should have been. I said something under my breath, pushed through the revolving door and ran. My backpack bounced back and forth on my back

My usual routine after math, at 1:50 pm is to climb the steps by the lounge, shrug off my backpack full of books and sit on the ledge by the railing at the front entrance waiting until 2:05 when I walk to the bus stop by the north annex. The bus, usually on time, comes at 2:12. One particular Wednesday, though, I thought I'd leave a little early, since the driver hadn't been the regular one for the past two days and consequently the bus schedule was a bit mixed up.

As I stood up, putting my right arm through the red strap of my heavy backpack and walking to the revolving door, skipping the other strap in place around my left shoulder I noticed, through the window that the bus was already on its way down Fleetwood drive. In a matter of seconds it would be past the bus stop and I would have to wait a half hour for the next one. I pushed through the revolving door, not paying attention to the squeaking sound the rubber maked on the glass that usually makes me think of the sound a window-washer's squeegee makes. Then I ran.

My shoes making a flapping sound on the pavement and my books bouncing back and froth on my back with every running step I took. I passed two men in suits and ties wondering if they thought I was being pursued. All the while I was watching the bus, which by now had come to a halt at the bus stop.

No one was boarding so naturally I thought the driver was waiting for me. I paused in my flight wondering if he would stop at the corner where I was then standing. Better not chance it, I thought; so I was off again, afraid that the bus would zoom past me while I was halfway between stops. I finally reached the bus, panting form my run and boarded.

I thought I'd make a joke of the incident so I asked the driver if he'd ever tried to run with 15 pounds of books on his back. He answered dryly, "Not lately." He then sat there ten more minutes to make up for being early.

Note:
While I don't remember the actual incident of running to the bus, I do remember writing this story for my English class. I think I got a good grade on it because of the action and description.

August 18, 1975 In which I write about Jeremy

Saturday

Why can't I write in here regularly. It is not because I don't have lots of time.

Twenty-three days have passed since the latest entry. Jeremy drew the unicorn during those final two weeks. I think I had been upset about my room or something. Jeremy is gone now. He left August 9th at 9:30 pm.

The bus station was a riot. They -- Jeremy and Neil -- were supposed to leave at 8:05 and they didn't leave until 9:30.

The pictures are still at the Nelson's. I am hoping they come soon.

I am trying to gather enough courage to get a job. I need one. There is no doubt about that. If Idon't get to England next summer Jeremy will never forgive me.

Note:
While I don't remember writing this or the bus station, I do remember photos of the bus station. I remember Neil. I'm not sure who he stayed with, but it might have been Sue Burkart.

I don't recall needing a job, but since I ended up getting one, I guess I did.