Cashies and Me

The tears that have been spilled on my counter are countless.
I wrote that in a story once.

If I sit here and think, for a moment, about all the customers I have seen cry, there's a great big messy montage of me handing tissues out. To Maggie, to Moiretta, to Mrs. Burke. To Lee, to Linda, to the woman with the black eye in her customer photo.
To so many more than that.

To the woman whose son was covered in cigarette burns thanks to the teenagers at the commission flats.
To the one whose boyfriend stole thousands of her dollars and then left with the best friend.
To the one whose husband hit her.
To the man with the wife that hung herself and the daughter that won't speak to him.
Who drinks and stumbles around Chapel Street, and calls me Darling.
To the one whose sister was hit by a train.
To the guy whose partner spent all his money on wigs and stilettos in Sydney.

They cry for different reasons.
Quite a few have no one to talk to. And so they talk to me.
And I tell them things only a trained professional should.

Most tear up in desperation. I'm the bearer of bad news.
"You can't loan today, I'm sorry."

A few of them have seen me cry.
The day my mum called to tell me it was back, the cancer was back, I couldn't serve without tears in my eyes.
They offered me love and understanding.
We traded war stories.

Naomi bought me cheap eye shadow and thermal socks.
And made me a little elephant out of bead-o's.