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Mini Mart Croneby Arleigh Farrell |
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Trish looks down at the list in her hand. The blonde eyebrow lines seek to merge in the center, over her nose. First Item. Get restraining order. At the shelter they constantly remind her to refer to her list of things to do whenever she feels confused or overly emotional. Second item. Buy cigarettes. She pushes her hair behind her ears, exposing diamond earrings placed in delicate pink lobes. She's seen better times. "Sorry," says the angry man, gazing at Trish. "I wasn't talking about you. It's the old witch working the counter." Trish gazes through the store window to the woman standing at the cash register, a clerk with grey hair. The triangle points pop apart as she thinks. Another old person forced to do menial labor. The clerk's head bobs animatedly as she talks. | ||
"She seems happy," Trish says to the angry customer, but he is already at his car, pumping gas. Trish enters the store.
There is a line of people five deep. It is quiet, as if something just happened that left a chill of regret over the audience. People pay for gas and exit the store, threading their way back through the line to their waiting, thirsty cars. Trish reaches the front of the line.
"Can you get me a pack of Generic Menthol Light?" she asks the grey haired woman who has a name tag pin on her uniform just below the Ultra Gas label which reads 'Jackie.'
"Sure," Jackie answers, whirling around to the display case behind her. With scrunched up eyes she views saran wrapped packs glistening behind clear shelf guards. The double plastic makes it hard to see the names. She reaches out with for a pack.
"You've got your hand on them. No! You passed it! There. No!" says Trish, excitedly.
For some odd reason Jackie remembers that night in the cabin by the sea years ago when the crashing waves drowned out the sound of yelling. Far off she was sure she heard a cry for help. It was a woman's voice barely audible above the roaring sea. Jackie pulls a pack of Generic Menthol off the shelf and hands it to Trish.
"No! I SAID GENERIC MENTHOL LIGHT," Trish screams. A ripple of uneasiness stirs through the line of waiting customers.
Men were right to fear women and attempt their subjugation. Now woman is set free, let loose, as a swarm of angry bees. She is a vicious, stinging, bitter mob, Jackie thinks. Everything about this woman is struggling to be set free. Her boobs strain over the top of her overall bib as if they'd been trapped inside for years. Her painted eyebrows move mechanically on her face, unsure of their proper home.
Behind Trish the line stretches to the door again.
I can't ever seem to get the line to shrink, Jackie muses to herself. Trisha's voice-rage, a mutagen to the air, makes Jackie's hand shake as she places the cigarettes on the counter.
"We don't have the light menthol," she says shakily.
"I can see them from here," says Trish. She sees she has upset the old woman who is trying to smile at her but has a broken tooth, black inside. Trish wants to sooth, clumsily says, trying to be funny, "If you don't get them for me, I'll come around there and get them myself."
Nathan Preston, System Administrator for Corp Tech, enters Ultra Gas to find a long line. He looks nervously at his watch and wonders why these places are called such names as Quik Stop when you always have to wait. He checks the collar of his Alfani patterned dress shirt and adjusts his tie. His cell phone rings.
The man in front of Nathan has round black glass frames and long American Indian hair. He's wearing a black Harley Davidson jacket and has been enjoying the view. He has been staring at the brown back of Trish which is criss-crossed with tiny white lines like merry widow ties. As she leans across the counter the sides of the bib flap wide to reveal crescents of white where the sun never shines. A little bit of heaven.
The clerk is a true witch of about fifty-five with a pentagram boldly hanging around her neck.
"They'll hire anybody in these cheap gas marts," Nathan says into his cell phone. Jackie looks up to see who is talking. Oh my Goddess, Jackie thinks. Here's one trapped on the fast-trac of opportunity. People can be brutal. Especially after having been behind the wheel of a car. There is something about that feeling of power. It comes up from the engine, from the axle and surges through your hands and goes into your brain. You become God. You become all powerful extensions of metal. Iron Man or Iron Woman.
The Indian is thinking of his old girlfriend who keeps calling his wife: "Oh, there's just one more thing I forgot to tell you about. I have some of Cody's old records. Can he come over and help me sort through them? I don't remember which one's are his."
Cody removes his black frame glasses and rubs his temple, smoothing his hand down across his face. More books. His old jacket. The key to his Harley - they one he sold (Of course, you don't need that! How ridiculous!) We must go and visit her, she's depressed again, she lost another old man, she's gone through a mess of them lately, Cody thinks. His wife saying don't you understand, she is just trying to get you back, floats through his head. I took you away from her, his wife reminds him. Get a clue, she says, she is a threat to me. I don't want to go over there with you but I won't let you go by yourself, boy I wish you would just let her go, I wish she would just let you go. (Why did you marry me?)
.....To Page Two
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