that maybe he could go with us to a nice fa rm where Popsicle could stay for that week we were talking about.”
Darla gawked at me. “You talk to Joe about that?”
“Not yet.’
She snorted, then glanced sharply at me. “He’s going to kill you.”
“No. But his mom might.”
“Naw. She’ll keep you alive so she can verbally torture you about this for the rest of your life.”
“Right.”
The bedroom door flew open, and Paul stood there, holding Popsicle in his arms, face radiant.
“You guys have a Wii U! Can I play?” He looked like a ten-ye a r-old boy on Christmas morning.
Darla and I exchanged a smile.
“Sure. I’ll show you how to use it.” I stood and walked over to him.
A sloppy hug with a chicken wiggling between us came next.
“Thanks,” he whispered in my ear, his breath a sour rot that made me recoil . “And by the way—you’re out of beer now.”
Joe
Convenience stores on Christmas Day are a sad, sad place. I grabbed eggs, bacon, and a box of cider donuts and got in line.
Customer #1 bought a giant tube of lube, a twelve-pack of condoms, a box of super-absorbent tampons and a spatula.
Customer #2 bought one hundred scratch lottery tickets and three pack s of Marlboro light 100 menthols in a box.
Customer #3 bought a tube of hemorrhoid cream and one of those giant plastic candy canes filled with chocolate candy.
I was customer #4.
“Happy holidays,” the clerk said to customer #3 as he grabbed his bag of purchases.
“Don’t you mean Merry Christmas? Christ is the reason for the season!” Mr. Preparation Candy Cane growled. “You atheists are ruining this country!”
As he stormed out, the clerk screwed up her mouth and glared at him. I knew she wanted to flip him the bird, but I guessed that if you’re working at a convenience store on Christmas Day, you probably don’t have a lot of career options. Getting caught on camera giving a customer the middle finger was grounds for termination.
As she rang up my items, a giant dose of reality flowed through me as if injected into my bloodstream.
That clerk was basically Darla.
Three years ago, Darla worked at a gas station convenience store. That was her career. That was her life in Ohio.
Unreality permeated my pores as I watched the clerk’s hands, the nails ragged from being chewed, put my eggs, bacon and donuts in a white plastic bag. She looked up and made eye contact, a rarity in a convenience store.
“The donuts are on sale. If you buy another box, you get half off. You want another one?”
I just stared. Brown hair pulled back in a messy pony tail. Bags under her eyes. No make up. She wore a blue vest, part of a uniform, and her mouth was small. Tight. No upper lip, and dark, thick eyebrows that were perfectly sculpted.
S he was about my age and wore a crooked name tag that read “Carrie L.”
“ Hello? Sir?” The word “sir” was laughable, so incongruous that it shook me out of my stupor.
“Yeah? Oh. Sure. Another box of donuts.” I took three steps, grabbed the first one on top, and tossed it on the counter.
She rang up. “That’ll be $13.29.”
I gave her a twenty and grabbed the bag, headed out the door.
“Your change!”
“Consider it a tip.”
“But I can’t have tips!”
“You can now.”
“ Thank y—”
My legs pumped fast, getting me the hell away from that store as quickly as possible. I’d woken up in the middle of the night to find Trevor sitting at the kitchen table and that bum, Tortilla, sound asleep on our couch, his chicken curled up in his arms.
Trevor had a bleeding heart, apparently. Darla rubbed off on him.
Darla rubbed off on both of us, clearly, and not just during sex. Ants crawled all over my body, my jaw clicking as I stretched it, my body tense and tight, as if bracing myself from truths that would attack in formation.
There is only so much craziness a person can take in any given time frame.
And I’d had my fill.
As I
Darla gawked at me. “You talk to Joe about that?”
“Not yet.’
She snorted, then glanced sharply at me. “He’s going to kill you.”
“No. But his mom might.”
“Naw. She’ll keep you alive so she can verbally torture you about this for the rest of your life.”
“Right.”
The bedroom door flew open, and Paul stood there, holding Popsicle in his arms, face radiant.
“You guys have a Wii U! Can I play?” He looked like a ten-ye a r-old boy on Christmas morning.
Darla and I exchanged a smile.
“Sure. I’ll show you how to use it.” I stood and walked over to him.
A sloppy hug with a chicken wiggling between us came next.
“Thanks,” he whispered in my ear, his breath a sour rot that made me recoil . “And by the way—you’re out of beer now.”
Joe
Convenience stores on Christmas Day are a sad, sad place. I grabbed eggs, bacon, and a box of cider donuts and got in line.
Customer #1 bought a giant tube of lube, a twelve-pack of condoms, a box of super-absorbent tampons and a spatula.
Customer #2 bought one hundred scratch lottery tickets and three pack s of Marlboro light 100 menthols in a box.
Customer #3 bought a tube of hemorrhoid cream and one of those giant plastic candy canes filled with chocolate candy.
I was customer #4.
“Happy holidays,” the clerk said to customer #3 as he grabbed his bag of purchases.
“Don’t you mean Merry Christmas? Christ is the reason for the season!” Mr. Preparation Candy Cane growled. “You atheists are ruining this country!”
As he stormed out, the clerk screwed up her mouth and glared at him. I knew she wanted to flip him the bird, but I guessed that if you’re working at a convenience store on Christmas Day, you probably don’t have a lot of career options. Getting caught on camera giving a customer the middle finger was grounds for termination.
As she rang up my items, a giant dose of reality flowed through me as if injected into my bloodstream.
That clerk was basically Darla.
Three years ago, Darla worked at a gas station convenience store. That was her career. That was her life in Ohio.
Unreality permeated my pores as I watched the clerk’s hands, the nails ragged from being chewed, put my eggs, bacon and donuts in a white plastic bag. She looked up and made eye contact, a rarity in a convenience store.
“The donuts are on sale. If you buy another box, you get half off. You want another one?”
I just stared. Brown hair pulled back in a messy pony tail. Bags under her eyes. No make up. She wore a blue vest, part of a uniform, and her mouth was small. Tight. No upper lip, and dark, thick eyebrows that were perfectly sculpted.
S he was about my age and wore a crooked name tag that read “Carrie L.”
“ Hello? Sir?” The word “sir” was laughable, so incongruous that it shook me out of my stupor.
“Yeah? Oh. Sure. Another box of donuts.” I took three steps, grabbed the first one on top, and tossed it on the counter.
She rang up. “That’ll be $13.29.”
I gave her a twenty and grabbed the bag, headed out the door.
“Your change!”
“Consider it a tip.”
“But I can’t have tips!”
“You can now.”
“ Thank y—”
My legs pumped fast, getting me the hell away from that store as quickly as possible. I’d woken up in the middle of the night to find Trevor sitting at the kitchen table and that bum, Tortilla, sound asleep on our couch, his chicken curled up in his arms.
Trevor had a bleeding heart, apparently. Darla rubbed off on him.
Darla rubbed off on both of us, clearly, and not just during sex. Ants crawled all over my body, my jaw clicking as I stretched it, my body tense and tight, as if bracing myself from truths that would attack in formation.
There is only so much craziness a person can take in any given time frame.
And I’d had my fill.
As I
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