I didn’t actually know people did this on Yahoo Answers, so I thought I’d give it a whirl and see what criticisms I could get.
This story is being told from several first person narrators, and this is the second one in.
Disclaimer: There is brief, fairly mild language. I don’t know, does that get edited out when I hit submit?
Anyway, I’m looking for constructive criticism. Anything helps. If it sucks, it sucks, just say so.
Claudia:
We’re short, always short. We’re waiting, always waiting. Tom, our boss, spends the majority of his life reassuring me that he’s hired someone to fill the spot of seat-belt checker. That person will come, like Tom always says he or she will, and they will work for two, maybe three weeks, and then split. Sometimes they’re nice and will give several days, or even a week’s advance, but some go out on a fifteen minute break and never come back. I’ve learned to tell which type the new person is as soon as they walk up the path. You look at their fingernails. Seriously, try it sometime. If they are neatly trimmed with proportional cuticles and a natural color, then the person is genial and has a decent work ethic. But if it’s a kid who has nails that are bitten or shredded and have been partially colored in with white out—watch out! He or she may be a runner.
Speaking of which, I needed a cigarette. A new seat-belt checker would be arriving within the next few minutes. I don’t know what it is with that position that drives so many away, but it’s the most vacant job on this platform. It was 9:55 AM. Another two hours and five minutes before I could get to my break—and my cigarette. Here’s the thing: the seat belt checker is important. No, it really is. If some squirt’s not properly harnessed then ¡Hasta Luego! See you in the afterlife. I’ve never actually heard of a kid plummeting to his death from a ride at our park, but surely it can happen. As supervisor, it’s my job to train the seat belt checker. Long story short, if that person screws up and a kid dies, it’s my fault and I’m dealing with all the paperwork. Last month this six year old boy named Trevor something-or-other threw up so violently that he smashed his head into the seat in front of him and broke his nose. I was up to my eyeballs in paperwork for that. Could you imagine if someone died on my shift? **** would go down. And inadvertently, everything would be my fault.
Milson came up beside me, pushing his mop bucket from one side of the platform to the other. “She’s coming,” he hissed, discreetly jerking his head to the left.
I don’t know where that boy got so good at determining people’s agendas, but after four months of working with him, I’ve decided I might as well believe what he had to say. I looked in that direction and saw a small, blonde girl trying to make her way through the large crowd of tourists waiting for our ride to open its gates. She must be the new girl Tom was telling us about last night: the new seat-belt checker. Love…something.
As if on cue, a large man with bird-watching binoculars around his neck threw a handful of popcorn at the girl. “Hey! You’re waiting in line like the rest of us!”
That’s when I noticed two things about her. One: Her fingernails were clean. Two: She showed no indication of acknowledging the tourist. So she was either in a meditative state or deaf. Tom really had a knack for hiring people. Really.
I saw her mouth form the words “Excuse Me” and work her way past the elbows restraining her. Just before she got to the front of the crowd an overexcited boy laughed and upended his sixteen ounce cup of Fruit Punch on the girl’s front.
Two hours and counting until my cigarette.
