The Shredder

Amid extreme cramping at work, I looked up from my knees to see the document-shredder people emptying the to-be-shredded bins.

It was just two guys wearing uniforms, emptying an overloaded blue sack into a large gray rolling bin that always makes a lot of noise every time its pushed. One of them was red headed, and had an odd looking tuft of beard. His hair line was greatly receding, leaving his forehead oversized. He looked all wrong.

And then I realized why I thought he looked all wrong. It was because I knew what he looked like ten years ago. Ten years ago, we were in tenth grade together. Ten years ago we shared a PE class.

I forgot about my cramps momentarily and focused on what the red headed shredder should have looked like. He was a wannabe thug in high school, I suddenly remembered. His pants were always sagging. Boxers peeking out the back, but you'd only see them if he bent over, due to his affinity for oversized shirts. All of his clothing looked like it could have come out of a Big and Tall catalogue, which unfortunately were two adjectives he was not. He had the same red hair then, though it had been longer and constantly looked greasy, like he needed to wash it. He was pale, just like now. His lips were always too red. It might have been from drinking too much fruit drink out of the school vending machines. Just thinking about those machines I can smell the stink of the vending room. I can remember those little shrimp baskets and chicken baskets filled with food that always seemed to taste like paper and plastic. I can remember the pizza, delivered from Papa Johns every day, that somehow also started to taste nasty, and the evil lunch lady who always pulled you the slice that was smaller than the one you wanted. I remembered sweaty Bob Johnston walking me to the caffeteria from his earlier PE class, so we could eat together before I went to mine. I remember holding his class ring for him while he dressed out, and then just holding it all the time. I remembered giving it back one day, too. I remember Shaniqua Curtis sitting with her friends at a table across the lunch room from us, in a folding chair, because she was too pregnant to sit at one of the little stools. I remember the screams that erupted, three months prior, in the room across the hall from my science class on the day they announced that over fall break Shaniqua's boyfriend had been shot and killed. I remember the taste of cherry vanilla coke. I remember when they hiked the price of bottled drinks by 50 cents at the vending machines. I remember when the principal announced he was leaving. I remember Nazi-saluting his replacement the next year. I remembered Chris Foster calling me on my home phone to tell me we should go out. I remember telling him I had a boyfriend. I remembered wanting with every shred of my being to win a state championship speech trophy.

I remember it all like it was simple. And clean. And I don't even think it really was, but it was for me. Because I was. When did things change so much?

And I looked back up at that shredder-guy and I thought, this is what we become. We're adults now. We're not grand. We didn't get famous. You're not a rapper and I'm not a poet laureat. Rebel or not, straight-A student or C-average, we're doing work in the same building right now.
I print documents, and you shred them. Its as simple as that.