Slick Mitchell sat in his Mercedes SLS AMG, one-hundred yards from the Tommy entrance. He wanted to go inside, and he'd opened his car door twice, only to close it again. Today, he didn't want to be Slick Mitchell, Tommy's grandson. Today, he'd have liked to be like everyone else. Maybe he could be the guy who watered the plants, or the young girl who mixed the paint.
Everyone assumed he was a ding bat because he was a Mitchell. Peter Mitchell, or Peta, if you asked his mother. She used to call him Peter when they were poor and ordinary, when Pop Mitchell, better known as Tommy, had a little corner hardware store. These days, she called him Peta. "Peta, when are you coming for dinner? Peta, are you eating right? Peta, how is that wife of yours?" Always Peta. Somewhere beneath the Christian Dior, the Vera Wang, and the Tom Ford was the mother he remembered, the woman who made brownies in her housedress, and could still pronounce the letter r.
Now, Tommy's was a hardware superstore, his mother called him Peta, and Pop didn't know him anymore. Pop ate popsicles, watched Sponge Bob and forgot to wear pants, if his nurse didn't remind him. The superstore owner had become super old, and Slick knew it would happen to him one day. He'd lose his movie star good looks, and everything would fall south, and gravity would wreck his body.
"That is going to suck," Slick Mitchell said aloud.
It was all about expectations. Everyone expected Slick Mitchell to walk the store in five-hundred-dollar shoes, and designer jeans. Maybe he just wanted to wear Levi's and Nike sneakers. He supposed everyone had days they'd rather be someone else. Stockwell probably woke up every day wishing he wasn't a sugarholic. Miles probably wished he was addicted to Pop Rocks instead of the horses. Even the ladies were probably unsatisfied at times. Kitty probably wanted a day off from being a diva every once in a while, and maybe Mags wanted to take a vacation from being the lovable clown.
Just for a day, Slick wanted to be a regular Joe. He wanted to live on less than six figures, and be happy because the seven bucks in his pocket were enough to buy dinner at a fast food joint. "Peta, you're not eating that greasy shit again are you? It will ruin your colon."
Slick hated that he heard his mother's voice in his head so much. He'd have liked to turn her off. He could really use a vacation from that nonsense.
Truthfully, Slick Mitchell needed more. He didn't want to be a schlub who walked around Tommy's in expensive shoes, but didn't know how to use a hammer. If he was gonna work at Tommy's, he was gonna get his hands dirty like everyone else. He didn't care what his mother might say. "Wear gloves, so you don't get splinters in those lovely hands," was the first thing that came to his mind.
Slick Mitchell sat up straighter in the baby's-butt-smooth leather seat. He'd get more involved, play a larger role in the Tommy operation. And, he'd start today!
Before he could move, he saw a figure in a dark sweatshirt, flee from the Tommy's exit as if someone was chasing him. (Mitchell assumed it was a "him".) He carried two items, one in each hand, and Slick assumed he hadn't put them on his Tommy card.
"Damn thief," Mitchell said, under his breath.
Seconds later, Penelope Ross, in the Tommy neon green, flew from the exit, hot on the thief's heels. Most stores didn't give chase to shoplifters, but Tommy's was different. That was the one thing Tommy "Pop" Mitchell insisted on, back when he could tie his shoes. He ran an honest business, and had no tolerance for hooligans who robbed him blind.
Penelope was hauling some serious ass, and gaining on the thug. Four years in track had prepared Penelope well for reducing loss in the Tommy family. The thief approached, and without thinking, Slick opened the Mercedes door, the door releasing with a gentle hiss. The thief hit the door, and the two drills hit the ground. The thug followed, hitting the pavement with a satisfying thump.
Peter "Slick" Mitchell hit the red button on his key fob, the Mercedes chirped, and he picked up both drills. He "high fived" Penelope who stood over her "kill", and winked at the thief, who lay moaning at his feet.
Maybe Slick had a future in loss prevention.
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