Welcome to Lancaster’s
Condoms, a fire extinguisher, and calamine lotion.
She ducks her head.
I have to hold back a laugh.
Debit or credit, I ask.
Is he really that much of a freak, I wonder.
I chuckle. She probably notices.
For the record, I understand that I tend not to be a discreet person. But really, she’s making this too easy for me.
I have to wonder what kind of night she has planned. I mean, I don’t want to visualize her—with her frizzy aisle 5A bottle blonde hair and aisle 7B shadow/liner combo—having any sort of crazy sexual encounter with anyone, but I can’t help but wonder how comic the unfolding of that night would be.
But back to business...
Debit or credit, I ask again after a silent second. Maybe she forgot I was here. She’s gone to picking her aisle 7B nail polish—‘Reddy To Mingle’ is the oh-so clever name of that shade of red that’s coquettish in the I’ll-suck-your-dick kind of way. It’s chipping and flaking at the cuticle. I want to tell her to drink more water; that it’ll make her hair and nails healthier; that her cuticles won’t shred and tear and shrink like that anymore. But she looks like she has other things on her mind. I don’t want to burden her with such frivolous information.
Debit or—
She cuts me off before I have a chance to ask her again. Cash is what she tells me. She’ll pay cash.
“$73.19,” I tell her. “Are you sure you want to pay with cash?”
But of course, she’s determined. She’s digging through her pockets and purse, pulling out eighty dollars in crumpled bills. And I thought no one carried around cash like that anymore.
Maybe she held up a bank with a ski mask from aisle 19B on her way over here. Or maybe it was her who had issues with the ATM twenty minutes ago. (Maybe working from ten to six in a place like this every day actually makes you crazy.)
And again, I want to laugh. I want to laugh until my abdominal muscles ache and my diaphragm spasms and seizes with the lack of oxygen. I want to laugh until I’m dizzy because of hyperventilating. Basically until I’m blue in the face. Until the cows come home. Until I get that degree. Until I get that new job I’ve been intending to look for.
But no, I can’t laugh. I have to be congeal and friendly. They told me that specifically in the staff meeting. They told me “Yes, Leah, that means you Leah. I’m tired at you laughing at people for living their lives. They don’t like it, Leah. It isn’t your place to criticize every person walking through the doors.”
But they don’t have to like my attitude the same way I don’t have to like this job. So the customers can suck it. The managers can suck it too.
But back to business, because I clearly always have my mind on business.
Paper or plastic? I ask it just to fuck with her. I obviously succeed. She gives me a look that could freeze hell over and I want to tell her to wish me her worse; I want to tell her that whatever apocalyptic horsemen she casts unto me couldn’t be more horrendous than this. But I don’t. I just ask her again.
Paper or plastic?
And part of me wonders if she has a gun or a knife shoved in the space between the knock off La Perla bra and the silicone breasts or in the fake Coach purse.
But no, I’m not that lucky.
My jugular is not spouting blood like a cheap fountain.
I am not stabbed on the job.
I am not shot twice in the chest.
I do not have a bullet searing through the gelatinous goo of my brain.
I do not incite murder in others.
But I do happen to incite her to haul her shit up into that big ass purse of hers. The condoms, the calamine lotion, the fire extinguisher. All of it.
I would tell her that she is being very eco-friendly, that she’s helping the environment—just to fuck with her a little more—but she’s huffing away, towards the exit and out the automated glass doors that lead out to the real world (funny, the real world). And she’s gone out in to real life before I have a chance to react, before the transaction is technically complete.
No change.
No receipt.
No bag.
No explanation.
And I want to laugh until I pass out in aisle 15B—with the sugar cereal to my left and the beer to my right.
I would do that but alas, I don’t have the time. There are customers to assist. There is minimum wage to earn. There’s always some shmuck with some crazy combinations like a bible, a six pack of beer, and baby powder right behind the woman who I just scared off. There’s always some misguided lowlife begging for my undivided attention.
And since that’s always there, I’m always here.
I’m always “Did you find everything okay?”
I’m always “Do you have any coupons you’d like to use?”
I’m always “Thank you for shopping at Lancaster’s, please come again soon.” But I always bite my tongue before “Or just don’t” because I actually need this fucking job.
4 comments:
I'm pretty sure I read this for you earlier, but I absolutely loved it!!! It's a really unique piece of writing, and I love how the girl continuously flips back and forth between mockery and holding it all back. There's a real struggle going on, and it's not really in the sort of way that you would expect it, which makes it really really awesome :D
Dude, Melissa, sweet-ass story/poem.
Stoem?
Poery?
It was fun through, and the bit with "I am not stabbed in the chest..." was awesome. Couple typos were hiding in it. None of them big ones. It could perhaps afford to be pared down some, but this is golden!
Also, I loved the line "...that shade of red that’s coquettish in the I’ll-suck-your-dick kind of way."
I really felt like a menial worker with philosophical aspirations and no motivation and a piss-poor life while I read it. This is an impressive piece, dude. Makes me feel like I ought to be writing more.
Sorry to be interrupting the flow of comment's on Melissa's story, but:
Charles, that's because you ought to be writing more. I can't talk about poetry in the lit mag at my school without wishing that I could put some of your stuff in it . . . your poetry kicks the ass of everything we've gotten so far about tenfold.
Commenting can continue :) Love you Melissa! For the record, Melissa, I feel the same way about your short stories. They kick the ass of most of the other short stories that have been submitted to the lit mag.
This was really good. I love the way you capture all sorts of little details in your stories. I particularly liked the way you know exactly which aisle everything is in. Charles pretty much summed the psychology of the story, so I don't have much to add on that front.
One observation, not a necessarily a criticism, is that not much happens in the story. Not that I'm suggesting you create some contrived plot out of nowhere. The story itself is great the way it is. This sort of storytelling is good for short stories where you don't need a plot really. I do think that a little of it goes a long way and I'd really like to see you combine your great sense for detail and situation with a good storyline.
But that's just a suggestion for the future. This is a terrific short story and its very well written. I think you could use stuff like this to create a great longer story. But again, this is a suggestion for a hypothetical story that doesn't exist, yet, so great job with this one.
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