Mags Davidson screeched when the phone struck her.
"What in the name of all that's holy?" Mags yelled, rubbing her shoulder. A young woman holding a smoke detector, inhaled sharply, and Mags apologized. "I was praying," Mags explained. "I am very religious."
"Is it okay to pray here?" the customer said.
"I think so. No one's mentioned a separation of church and home improvement," Mags explained, and the customer smiled. "I am sorry. Sometimes my mouth just runs away on me."
"Apology accepted," the customer said. "Are you all right?"
"I will be. Right now I'm trying to figure out what hit me," Mags said.
"That gentleman over there threw a phone. That seems dangerous," the customer said.
"Why it does, doesn't it?" Mags said, suddenly remembering the caller on line one. "Miss, if you don't mind, I'm going to have Wilton ring up your purchase over at register twelve," Mags said, shuffling the customer in the direction of Wilton's station. Mags found the phone by the front door. It had bounced off her shoulder, and skittered another fifteen feet. "Were you looking for this?" Mags asked Stockwell, who hung his head in apparent shame.
"I was," Reeve Stockwell said.
"Well, good news. No one called while it was sailing across the store, hitting me in the shoulder, or laying on the floor."
"I am sorry I lost my cool," Stockwell said sheepishly.
"Lost your cool?" Mags asked. "Look it, I know you're my boss, and I am supposed to respect you, and all that other mumbo jumbo, but you just threw a friggin' phone at me, and what irks me even more, is that it's distracting all of us from the fact that there is a bomb in the store!" Mags said, looking suddenly panicked.
"There's no bomb. It was Kitty grandmother on the phone," Stockwell explained.
"Ada? No shit," Mags said.
"Language," Stockwell reminded her.
"From the phone thrower," Mags chided.
"In fact, I need to deal with Kitty. Two police officers are on their way. Please let them know the threat was a prank, and call me when they arrive. I'll deal with them," Stockwell told Mags.
"Shall I say anything to them?" Mags asked.
"I'd rather you didn't."
"I'll just chat them up. Maybe ask a bit about restraining orders and the likes. Just in case the phone throwing isn't an isolated incident."
Reeve Stockwell walked laboriously toward his office. He wondered how many more days he could take like this. He paused at his office door, knowing Kitty was inside. He chose not to delay the inevitable, opened the door, and stepped inside.
Kitty was staring at the wall.
"Am I fired?" Kitty asked.
"No."
"I'm not?" Kitty said, making eye contract.
"No."
"Why not?"
"Technically, this is your first offense, and in reality, it's not even your offense," Stockwell said. He felt calmer in his office. Perhaps it was knowing the king size bag of Reese's cups were in his desk.
"My first offense?" Kitty asked, her voice soft.
"Yes. Kitty, you equally delight me and drive me to the candy aisle in the CVS across the street, but being a pain in my ass is not necessarily against policy. Tommy's Tool Town is pretty much a melting pot of diversity. Everyone here irritates me from time to time. You're just at the front of the line."
"I'm not sure what to say."
"You may start with anything that might give me a clue as to why Ada would call in a bomb threat," Stockwell said.
"She likes to hear about my days here. Let's just say, I'm the Helen and Ada whisperer. The more I talk, the less they scream at each other. It can be a regular throw-down with those two," Kitty explained.
"And we're getting to the bomb threat?" Stockwell asked.
"We are. Gran watches a lot of crime shows. She and Helen could process a crime scene better than any CSI ever trained, although they'd probably kill each other before any crime got solved. Last night, over the Stouffers they fought over for thirty minutes, I told them about the bomb threat training. Gran got the idea to test our skill, in the hope that, if she called, Horatio Caine would come."
"And who is this Horatio person?" Stockwell asked.
"He is on CSI Miami."
"A television show?"
"Yes," Kitty whispered.
"Your grandmother is a strange woman," Stockwell commented.
"You cannot even begin to imagine."
"Kitty, if anyone else told me this story, I would think they'd gone completely nuts. From you, it's almost believable."
"Thanks. I think," Kitty mumbled.
The phone on Stockwell's desk chirped and both he and Kitty stared at it.
"You gonna get that?" Kitty asked.
Reeve Stockwell picked up the phone, and put it to his ear. "Stockwell."
Kitty could hear a loud voice through the phone. She stared at the floor.
Reeve Stockwell hung up. He stared at Kitty.
"What?" Kitty asked.
"I'm afraid your worlds are about to collide. The cops are on their way to pick up your grandmother. Sonny needs to interview her. He has to create a report for Corporate."
Kitty went completely pale. "Oh, no. No, no, no, no, no. This cannot be happening." Kitty began to rock in her chair, and Stockwell felt something that bordered on sympathy. "Oh, shit. Oh, no," Kitty mumbled, repeating the words again and again.
"Kitty. You all right?"
"Nope. No. No way, not even close. Please, Reeve," Kitty begged. "Please don't let them do that. My grandmother cannot come here. I come here to be safe, and to see Mags, and everyone else. I am happy here. I am not really all that happy anywhere else. I'm happy when I write, and I'm super happy when I eat Count Chocula before bed and have that dream where Johnny Depp awards me the Pulitzer, and then says, 'hey, Kitty, you going to the Vanity Fair party afterward?'"
Kitty carried on hysterically, and Stockwell just stared at her.
"My grandmother dresses weird, and yells because her hearing is bad, and she farts, and doesn't know it, because her hearing is bad, and sometimes when I go to the store, I pretend I don't know her. She doesn't know I'm ignoring her, the sweet thing, probably because her peripheral vision took a shit about twenty years ago, and you can sneak up on her from two inches away. Anyway, when people look at her, and believe me, they all do, I look at her, and do that thing, you know the thing where you take your finger, and whirl it around, like someone's a bit batty, or something, you know that thing, Reeve?"
"Kitty, have you ever considered talking with someone?"
"I'm talking to you."
"I'm your boss, not your therapist."
"I know," Kitty whined, afraid she might cry.
"Oh, for crying out loud. Don't cry. Here," Reeve said, going for the gusto. He reached into his desk drawer, and pulled out the enormous bag of chocolates. That did Kitty in. She bawled like an acne-ridden teenager who hadn't been asked to the middle school dance. "Kitty, don't. Please don't."
"I am just so touched that you'd share them with me," Kitty whimpered.
"Don't be all that touched. It was selfish. I was just hoping you'd shut up because I have absolutely no idea what to say to you."
"Aw, shucks," Kitty said, gaining some control.
"Put some in your pocket, kiddo. Let's wait outside. I don't want anyone to think I actually did kill you."
Kitty followed Stockwell to the door.
****************
Lucie Goosie and Bernice Lord had arrived while Kitty had been holed up in Stockwell's office. Both ran to her side.
"Are you okay, Kitty?" Lucie asked.
"Of course. Kitty is always okay," Bernice said.
"Thanks, girls. I'll be all right." Kitty walked to the front door, and looked outside. A cop car pulled up. Two deputies exited, and one opened the rear door. Ada MacKenzie stepped out, and Kitty gasped. "Mother of God, give me strength." Stockwell watched her from twenty feet away. Kitty turned. "If you ever really wanted to kill me, now would be a really good time."
The doors whooshed open and Ada staggered in, accompanied by the two deputies. Kitty could tell they were trying not to laugh.
"Sweet Jesus," Stockwell said.
"Oh, my. Hello, dear," Ada said, toddling to where Kitty stood. Ada took her in her bony arms, and Kitty looked over her shoulder to where her co-workers stood. Their mouths were all hanging open.
"Grandma, what in the hell are you wearing?" Kitty asked.
"Isn't it fabulous? I made it from your prom dress. You weren't ever going to wear it again. No forty-year-old woman goes to a prom, unless she's a chaperon or a pedophile, so I wanted to repurpose it. Do you like it?"
Ada had fashioned the prom dress into something that looked like a tutu. She wore her purple spandex pants, and pink sneakers. An enormous parka, three sizes too large, protected her small frame from the intense wind. The parka was unzipped and barely concealed an I'm sexy and I know it, tee shirt.
"It's lovely," Kitty said, wishing she could click her heels together and disappear.
"Good. Because I made you one, too," Ada said.
"That would come in particularly handy if you're ever offered a role in the Nutcracker," Mags said, from two feet away.
"I think she's cute," Lucie Goosie said.
"She rocks," Bernice said.
"Oh, look at those Tommy shirts. Everyone's got one, and they all match. I'd love to have one of those. I have some flowered slacks that would look hot with a Tommy shirt." Ada nearly squealed with delight.
"Ada, if you give me your statement, I'll hook you up with a shirt," Reeve Stockwell said.
"And you are?" Ada asked.
"I am Reeve Stockwell."
"Of course you are. I should have known you. Kitty tells us all about you," Ada said, and Kitty blushed.
"And what does Kitty say?" Reeve asked.
Kitty took a deep breath. She loved her grandmother, loved her like crazy, no matter what she looked like. At ninety-nine, Ada had a good, long life. She'd seen the Beetles, and Elvis, and Madonna, twice, in concert. If Ada's ticker gave out right at that moment, before she said another word, Kitty would mourn like a good grand daughter, and all her secrets would go to Ada's grave, along with the spandex, the Hello Kitty collectibles (she wanted to be buried with) and the tutu.
Kitty wished the old woman dead, for a mere second, but long enough to know she'd be struck by lightening the next time the sky got angry.
"Kitty says you want to kill people. I could profile you, if you'd like. I've become quite good at it," Ada offered.
"Perhaps another time," Stockwell said, sending the death stare over the top of Ada's head, in Kitty's direction.
Kitty shrugged.
"Let's get you to my office, take that statement, round up a shirt for you, and get you home before you catch a chill," Stockwell said.
That was the best idea Kitty had heard all day.
Wednesday, April 11, 2012
Monday, April 9, 2012
Tommy's Tool Town - Chapter 13 - Reeve Stockwell - A Man Gone Completely Mad
Reeve Stockwell's day hadn't started well. Sonny Brooks and Miles Longworth had both called in sick, leaving Reeve Stockwell to do the work of three men. Stockwell had been up until all hours nursing a Nutter Butter hangover, and wasn't all that interested in doing the work of one man.
Kitty Richardson arrived five minutes late, looking like Sophia Loren, in her huge sunglasses, and flowered scarf.
"How about this wind," she'd remarked, rushing past Stockwell, in search of the closest terminal to punch in on Tommy's time clock.
"You're late, Kitty," Stockwell growled.
"Worth the wait, as always," Kitty replied.
"I should fire you," Stockwell yelled to her back.
"Fire me tomorrow. There's a good movie on Lifetime," Kitty said with a wink.
"That woman is a certified nut," Stockwell said, and a customer turned and glared at him.
"Most apologetic, Ma'am," Stockwell said. "I certainly didn't mean you."
"I didn't figure you did. Likely meant the madwoman with the scarf, and dark glasses. She looks a bit batty," the customer commented, and Stockwell smiled at her.
You have no idea, Reeve Stockwell thought.
"Well, dear, since you're right here, perhaps you can help me. I've brought back this thing-a-ma-jigger here for Bert, my beloved. Bert's got a bit of the gout, poor old fella. Couldn't bring himself to come'a shufflin into your fine store in his bedroom slippers."
"Let's take it over to Returns, and we'll see what we can figure out," Reeve Stockwell said. He grabbed the box, which he assumed held a saw, and walked along beside his aging customer. The customer plodded along at a speed that made a tortoise seem like an over achiever, and ten minutes later, they stood before Bernice Lord, at the return desk.
"May I help you?" Bernice said, with her dazzling smile. A large chuck of Twizzlers was lodged between her two front teeth. Upon closer inspection, Stockwell saw a second piece, and was pleased to find his Tool Towners following the "no food" rule on the front end.
Reeve Stockwell sat the box on the counter, took a step back, out of the customer's peripheral vision, and tapped his teeth.
"Are teeth missing from the saw, Ma'am?" Bernice said, again with the Candy Land smile.
"I beg your pardon, young lady?" the customer asked.
Stockwell held up two fingers.
"Two teeth?" Bernice said, and Stockwell felt heat in his face. He held up the two fingers and shook them wildly. "Two words?"
"Ma'am, if you'll excuse us for just a moment, we'll have a little talk about how to best serve you, and we'll return in about thirty seconds," Stockwell said.
"It's all right, dear. I could stand to glue my teeth back in. I'm going to sneak a Snickers, since Bert's not with me."
Stockwell wasn't sorry to miss that, and led Bernice away from the return counter.
"Bernice, please remove the gobs of Twizzler's from your front teeth."
"Uh oh," Bernice whispered.
"Caught you. If I catch you again, I will tape your mouth shut, so that you'll stop eating candy on the job."
"Why does everyone want to tape my mouth shut? That's against policy. What would people think?"
"We'll get you one of those masks from the paint department. That way, no one will know your mouth is taped shut."
"They'll think I have Bird Flu or Sars," Bernice whined.
"I'll bet no one would bother you for a while."
Bernice perked up a bit. "How would I talk to customers?" Bernice asked.
"I'll get you an Etch-A-Sketch."
"That's hardly a good use of time," Bernice remarked. "I had one of those things. Couldn't even draw a straight line with it.
"Show me your teeth," Stockwell demanded.
Bernice did.
"Much better. Let's get back to work," Reeve Stockwell suggested.
In less than a minute, the two arrived back at the return desk. The customer had glued her teeth in incorrectly, bottoms on the top, tops on the bottoms, and she smiled like something from a Fun House.
Bernice covered her mouth and pretended to sneeze.
God give me strength," Stockwell thought. It was just past 10:00 AM. He hadn't expected to be this irritated until early afternoon.
Bernice stepped behind the customer to retrieve the box. She tapped her teeth, and smiled the huge smile.
Stockwell ignored her.
"Let's see what you have here," Stockwell said. He removed the saw from the box, and set it on the counter. The problem was immediately obvious. The cord dangled by a thread. It had been severed by, Stockwell was left to assume, the saw to which it was once completely connected.
"Ma'am, the cord is damaged," Stockwell said, and Bernice stifled a giggle with her hand. Stockwell sent the young associate the death stare. Bernice fell silent.
"Why, look at that," the woman said, the teeth clacking together furiously. "Bert only cut one thing, and the doohickey stopped working."
"Looks like he might have cut two," Reeve Stockwell said, wishing someone would just shoot him.
"Well, it's guaranteed, right?" the woman asked. Stockwell forced himself not to look at her. He couldn't keep his eyes off the teeth.
"Well, considering that your husband-" Bernice began.
"Bernice, kindly call the tool department and have them bring a replacement for this nice lady," Stockwell asked.
"But...."
"Please do as I ask," Reeve Stockwell said. He accompanied Bernice to the phone, and whispered as he walked. "I am taking a break for the next few minutes. Unless there's a fire, a death, or a bomb threat, please do not call me," Stockwell ordered.
Famous last words.
****************
Kitty Richardson ditched the sunglasses and scarf, and made her way to Tommy's front end. Mags Davidson was already hard at work, directing traffic like a crossing guard. The egg on the side of her head was considerably smaller.
"How's things?" Kitty asked, and Mags smiled through a pencil in her teeth.
"Not bad," Mags replied. "JJ Patricks called out, so I sent Valentine Jones home to take a nap."
"Okay. What does one have to do with another?" Kitty asked, trying without success, to connect the dots in Mags' story.
"Right. Sorry, Kitty. I was doing a hundred things at once. Let me regroup. JJ called out, so I sent Val home to take a nap, and asked her to come back in later."
"Val's the best," Kitty said.
"You got that right," Mags agreed.
"What happened to JJ?" Kitty asked.
"Her mother fell and landed on the Statue of Liberty," Mags said, and Kitty just stared at her with her mouth open. "You catching flies?" Mags asked with a chuckle.
"How exactly did JJ's mother land on the Statue of Liberty? Did she fall out of the sky?" Kitty asked, and Mags laughed out loud.
"Hmm. That didn't come out right at all, did it?" Mags asked.
"Not at all," Kitty replied, giggling like a teenager.
"Okay. JJ's mother's cats got into a box of mementos, and one of them was a Statue of Liberty, 'bout six inches tall, from the sounds of it. JJ's mom tripped over the box and fell on the statue. Guess she messed up her tail bone pretty badly."
"Jeez, what are the odds?" Kitty asked.
"Don't ask me, I grade on a curve," Mags reminded her.
Both women jumped when the phone rang. "Can you run outside and grab me the paperwork from last night?" Mags asked.
"Sure thing," Kitty said. "From which register?"
"The one with a bunch of paperwork under the counter."
"Gotcha," Kitty replied, heading back toward Customer Service. "Hi, Amber," Kitty whispered, as she passed. Amber held the phone to her ear. She was as white as a sheet.
"B, b, b, bo....." Amber stuttered, and Kitty stopped dead in her tracks.
"Sweetheart, what's wrong? Are you okay? Are you having a stroke?" Kitty asked. It wasn't possible. Amber was young, half Kitty's age. Amber pushed the red "hold" button on her phone and slammed the receiver down.
"Bomb threat," Amber squeaked, and Kitty felt her bladder grow weak.
"Sweet Mary, mother of God," Kitty mumbled. "I'll get the manual. Pick the call back up, and see if you can get the guy talking," Kitty said, her adrenaline pumping a mile a minute.
"Me?" Amber said. "Why me?"
"Be brave, my child. You can do this," Kitty said, reassuringly.
Amber picked up the phone. "Hello," she said. "I'm sorry I had to set the phone down. My boss is going to help me to help you resolve this in a way that keeps everyone safe," Amber added, her voice trembling.
"Good, good," Kitty whispered. "You're doing great." Kitty was shaking as badly as her young associate. Mags stood ten feet away, yapping up a storm with an older couple, who had just purchased their first appliance in thirty years.
"Do you think the light stays on when you close the refrigerator door?" the older woman asked Mags.
"I don't know. I suppose you'd have to experiment," Mags suggested.
"Perhaps our little grandson could test it out for us. I've forgotten when he's coming next," the woman's husband said. "Do you remember, dear?"
"I don't. We forget everything nowadays," the woman said.
"Maybe you could set a video camera. Might be safer for your grandson," Mags recommended.
Kitty penned a quick post-it, and stuck in on Mag's monitor, out of site of the customers.
Bomb on line one.
Mags went pale, and shuffled the customers to the door with a wave.
"What the....?" Mags said softly.
"Seriously. Amber is on the phone with him now. Call Stockwell," Kitty said, returning quickly to Amber's side. Amber furiously made notes on a blank sheet of paper on the counter. Kitty read the random words.
disguised as old woman
bomb in Stockwell's office
Kitty will know what to do.
Bomb made from instructions on Internet, using Goggle
Bomb concealed in Lucky Strike box.
"WHAT IN THE NAME OF HELL!!" Kitty yelled, grabbing the phone. "GRANDMA! IS THAT YOU?" Kitty roared into the handset.
"Hello, dear. I just thought I'd call and give you a little practice." Ada disguised her voice, but the Lucky Strike rattle was unmistakable.
"You can stop disguising your voice now."
"Good. It's killing my throat."
"Gran, are you out of your ever-loving mind? You cannot call in a bomb threat. You cannot do that. No matter how helpful you want to be, or how much you think we need practice, you cannot ever, and I mean, EVER, call in a bomb threat. Do you understand me, Gran?"
Ada began to cry on the other end of the phone.
"Oh, jeez. Don't cry, Gran. Please don't cry," Kitty soothed.
"I don't have anything in my life. Anything. All I have is your mother, and umpteen pieces of nicotine gum, and ingrown toenails, and hairs where there shouldn't be any. It all looks so interesting on the television. You got me thinking with the whole bomb threat thing, so I went on Goggle and puttered around."
"It's Google, Gran. Why on earth would you do such a thing?"
"I thought if I called, maybe Horatio Caine would come."
"Gran, that's a character on a TV show. He isn't going to come for a bomb threat in the middle of nowhere in upstate, New York."
"It was worth a shot," Gran whined.
Kitty felt eyes on her back. Angry eyes. She turned around, and a fire-breathing Reeve Stockwell stood before her. He took the handset from her hand.
"Hello, Ada. Kitty will call you back in an hour," Stockwell said, placing the phone on the base with such calm and precision, Kitty felt her blood run cold.
"Are you going to kill me?" Kitty whispered.
"No, and that's not because I don't want to, because I do. I just don't want to spend the remainder of my life in a six-by-eight room with a serial killer, who, no matter how unlikely, might piss me off more than you do."
"Okay. Thank you for not killing me. Every morning when I wake up, I'll think of you," Kitty said, and Stockwell stuffed his hands in his pockets to keep from strangling her.
"That isn't making me feel any less like killing you. Go to my office. NOW!" Stockwell demanded.
Kitty did as ordered, without saying a word, in a manner so unlike Kitty it was frightening.
Reeve Stockwell pulled his phone from his pocket, and dialed a number he'd committed to memory. His call went to voicemail.
"Brooks, it's Stockwell. Kitty's grandmother just called in a bomb threat to test our skill. The cops are on their way. I really don't care if you're shitting fire, spitting up blood, or have been infected with something that will most certainly kill me if I am exposed. Get in here now!"
Stockwell ended the call, and threw the phone clear across the front end.
Amber Martin ducked.
Mags Davidson never got the chance.
Kitty Richardson arrived five minutes late, looking like Sophia Loren, in her huge sunglasses, and flowered scarf.
"How about this wind," she'd remarked, rushing past Stockwell, in search of the closest terminal to punch in on Tommy's time clock.
"You're late, Kitty," Stockwell growled.
"Worth the wait, as always," Kitty replied.
"I should fire you," Stockwell yelled to her back.
"Fire me tomorrow. There's a good movie on Lifetime," Kitty said with a wink.
"That woman is a certified nut," Stockwell said, and a customer turned and glared at him.
"Most apologetic, Ma'am," Stockwell said. "I certainly didn't mean you."
"I didn't figure you did. Likely meant the madwoman with the scarf, and dark glasses. She looks a bit batty," the customer commented, and Stockwell smiled at her.
You have no idea, Reeve Stockwell thought.
"Well, dear, since you're right here, perhaps you can help me. I've brought back this thing-a-ma-jigger here for Bert, my beloved. Bert's got a bit of the gout, poor old fella. Couldn't bring himself to come'a shufflin into your fine store in his bedroom slippers."
"Let's take it over to Returns, and we'll see what we can figure out," Reeve Stockwell said. He grabbed the box, which he assumed held a saw, and walked along beside his aging customer. The customer plodded along at a speed that made a tortoise seem like an over achiever, and ten minutes later, they stood before Bernice Lord, at the return desk.
"May I help you?" Bernice said, with her dazzling smile. A large chuck of Twizzlers was lodged between her two front teeth. Upon closer inspection, Stockwell saw a second piece, and was pleased to find his Tool Towners following the "no food" rule on the front end.
Reeve Stockwell sat the box on the counter, took a step back, out of the customer's peripheral vision, and tapped his teeth.
"Are teeth missing from the saw, Ma'am?" Bernice said, again with the Candy Land smile.
"I beg your pardon, young lady?" the customer asked.
Stockwell held up two fingers.
"Two teeth?" Bernice said, and Stockwell felt heat in his face. He held up the two fingers and shook them wildly. "Two words?"
"Ma'am, if you'll excuse us for just a moment, we'll have a little talk about how to best serve you, and we'll return in about thirty seconds," Stockwell said.
"It's all right, dear. I could stand to glue my teeth back in. I'm going to sneak a Snickers, since Bert's not with me."
Stockwell wasn't sorry to miss that, and led Bernice away from the return counter.
"Bernice, please remove the gobs of Twizzler's from your front teeth."
"Uh oh," Bernice whispered.
"Caught you. If I catch you again, I will tape your mouth shut, so that you'll stop eating candy on the job."
"Why does everyone want to tape my mouth shut? That's against policy. What would people think?"
"We'll get you one of those masks from the paint department. That way, no one will know your mouth is taped shut."
"They'll think I have Bird Flu or Sars," Bernice whined.
"I'll bet no one would bother you for a while."
Bernice perked up a bit. "How would I talk to customers?" Bernice asked.
"I'll get you an Etch-A-Sketch."
"That's hardly a good use of time," Bernice remarked. "I had one of those things. Couldn't even draw a straight line with it.
"Show me your teeth," Stockwell demanded.
Bernice did.
"Much better. Let's get back to work," Reeve Stockwell suggested.
In less than a minute, the two arrived back at the return desk. The customer had glued her teeth in incorrectly, bottoms on the top, tops on the bottoms, and she smiled like something from a Fun House.
Bernice covered her mouth and pretended to sneeze.
God give me strength," Stockwell thought. It was just past 10:00 AM. He hadn't expected to be this irritated until early afternoon.
Bernice stepped behind the customer to retrieve the box. She tapped her teeth, and smiled the huge smile.
Stockwell ignored her.
"Let's see what you have here," Stockwell said. He removed the saw from the box, and set it on the counter. The problem was immediately obvious. The cord dangled by a thread. It had been severed by, Stockwell was left to assume, the saw to which it was once completely connected.
"Ma'am, the cord is damaged," Stockwell said, and Bernice stifled a giggle with her hand. Stockwell sent the young associate the death stare. Bernice fell silent.
"Why, look at that," the woman said, the teeth clacking together furiously. "Bert only cut one thing, and the doohickey stopped working."
"Looks like he might have cut two," Reeve Stockwell said, wishing someone would just shoot him.
"Well, it's guaranteed, right?" the woman asked. Stockwell forced himself not to look at her. He couldn't keep his eyes off the teeth.
"Well, considering that your husband-" Bernice began.
"Bernice, kindly call the tool department and have them bring a replacement for this nice lady," Stockwell asked.
"But...."
"Please do as I ask," Reeve Stockwell said. He accompanied Bernice to the phone, and whispered as he walked. "I am taking a break for the next few minutes. Unless there's a fire, a death, or a bomb threat, please do not call me," Stockwell ordered.
Famous last words.
****************
Kitty Richardson ditched the sunglasses and scarf, and made her way to Tommy's front end. Mags Davidson was already hard at work, directing traffic like a crossing guard. The egg on the side of her head was considerably smaller.
"How's things?" Kitty asked, and Mags smiled through a pencil in her teeth.
"Not bad," Mags replied. "JJ Patricks called out, so I sent Valentine Jones home to take a nap."
"Okay. What does one have to do with another?" Kitty asked, trying without success, to connect the dots in Mags' story.
"Right. Sorry, Kitty. I was doing a hundred things at once. Let me regroup. JJ called out, so I sent Val home to take a nap, and asked her to come back in later."
"Val's the best," Kitty said.
"You got that right," Mags agreed.
"What happened to JJ?" Kitty asked.
"Her mother fell and landed on the Statue of Liberty," Mags said, and Kitty just stared at her with her mouth open. "You catching flies?" Mags asked with a chuckle.
"How exactly did JJ's mother land on the Statue of Liberty? Did she fall out of the sky?" Kitty asked, and Mags laughed out loud.
"Hmm. That didn't come out right at all, did it?" Mags asked.
"Not at all," Kitty replied, giggling like a teenager.
"Okay. JJ's mother's cats got into a box of mementos, and one of them was a Statue of Liberty, 'bout six inches tall, from the sounds of it. JJ's mom tripped over the box and fell on the statue. Guess she messed up her tail bone pretty badly."
"Jeez, what are the odds?" Kitty asked.
"Don't ask me, I grade on a curve," Mags reminded her.
Both women jumped when the phone rang. "Can you run outside and grab me the paperwork from last night?" Mags asked.
"Sure thing," Kitty said. "From which register?"
"The one with a bunch of paperwork under the counter."
"Gotcha," Kitty replied, heading back toward Customer Service. "Hi, Amber," Kitty whispered, as she passed. Amber held the phone to her ear. She was as white as a sheet.
"B, b, b, bo....." Amber stuttered, and Kitty stopped dead in her tracks.
"Sweetheart, what's wrong? Are you okay? Are you having a stroke?" Kitty asked. It wasn't possible. Amber was young, half Kitty's age. Amber pushed the red "hold" button on her phone and slammed the receiver down.
"Bomb threat," Amber squeaked, and Kitty felt her bladder grow weak.
"Sweet Mary, mother of God," Kitty mumbled. "I'll get the manual. Pick the call back up, and see if you can get the guy talking," Kitty said, her adrenaline pumping a mile a minute.
"Me?" Amber said. "Why me?"
"Be brave, my child. You can do this," Kitty said, reassuringly.
Amber picked up the phone. "Hello," she said. "I'm sorry I had to set the phone down. My boss is going to help me to help you resolve this in a way that keeps everyone safe," Amber added, her voice trembling.
"Good, good," Kitty whispered. "You're doing great." Kitty was shaking as badly as her young associate. Mags stood ten feet away, yapping up a storm with an older couple, who had just purchased their first appliance in thirty years.
"Do you think the light stays on when you close the refrigerator door?" the older woman asked Mags.
"I don't know. I suppose you'd have to experiment," Mags suggested.
"Perhaps our little grandson could test it out for us. I've forgotten when he's coming next," the woman's husband said. "Do you remember, dear?"
"I don't. We forget everything nowadays," the woman said.
"Maybe you could set a video camera. Might be safer for your grandson," Mags recommended.
Kitty penned a quick post-it, and stuck in on Mag's monitor, out of site of the customers.
Bomb on line one.
Mags went pale, and shuffled the customers to the door with a wave.
"What the....?" Mags said softly.
"Seriously. Amber is on the phone with him now. Call Stockwell," Kitty said, returning quickly to Amber's side. Amber furiously made notes on a blank sheet of paper on the counter. Kitty read the random words.
disguised as old woman
bomb in Stockwell's office
Kitty will know what to do.
Bomb made from instructions on Internet, using Goggle
Bomb concealed in Lucky Strike box.
"WHAT IN THE NAME OF HELL!!" Kitty yelled, grabbing the phone. "GRANDMA! IS THAT YOU?" Kitty roared into the handset.
"Hello, dear. I just thought I'd call and give you a little practice." Ada disguised her voice, but the Lucky Strike rattle was unmistakable.
"You can stop disguising your voice now."
"Good. It's killing my throat."
"Gran, are you out of your ever-loving mind? You cannot call in a bomb threat. You cannot do that. No matter how helpful you want to be, or how much you think we need practice, you cannot ever, and I mean, EVER, call in a bomb threat. Do you understand me, Gran?"
Ada began to cry on the other end of the phone.
"Oh, jeez. Don't cry, Gran. Please don't cry," Kitty soothed.
"I don't have anything in my life. Anything. All I have is your mother, and umpteen pieces of nicotine gum, and ingrown toenails, and hairs where there shouldn't be any. It all looks so interesting on the television. You got me thinking with the whole bomb threat thing, so I went on Goggle and puttered around."
"It's Google, Gran. Why on earth would you do such a thing?"
"I thought if I called, maybe Horatio Caine would come."
"Gran, that's a character on a TV show. He isn't going to come for a bomb threat in the middle of nowhere in upstate, New York."
"It was worth a shot," Gran whined.
Kitty felt eyes on her back. Angry eyes. She turned around, and a fire-breathing Reeve Stockwell stood before her. He took the handset from her hand.
"Hello, Ada. Kitty will call you back in an hour," Stockwell said, placing the phone on the base with such calm and precision, Kitty felt her blood run cold.
"Are you going to kill me?" Kitty whispered.
"No, and that's not because I don't want to, because I do. I just don't want to spend the remainder of my life in a six-by-eight room with a serial killer, who, no matter how unlikely, might piss me off more than you do."
"Okay. Thank you for not killing me. Every morning when I wake up, I'll think of you," Kitty said, and Stockwell stuffed his hands in his pockets to keep from strangling her.
"That isn't making me feel any less like killing you. Go to my office. NOW!" Stockwell demanded.
Kitty did as ordered, without saying a word, in a manner so unlike Kitty it was frightening.
Reeve Stockwell pulled his phone from his pocket, and dialed a number he'd committed to memory. His call went to voicemail.
"Brooks, it's Stockwell. Kitty's grandmother just called in a bomb threat to test our skill. The cops are on their way. I really don't care if you're shitting fire, spitting up blood, or have been infected with something that will most certainly kill me if I am exposed. Get in here now!"
Stockwell ended the call, and threw the phone clear across the front end.
Amber Martin ducked.
Mags Davidson never got the chance.
Sunday, April 8, 2012
Tommy's Tool Town - Chapter 12 - One Man's Trash is Another Man's Nightmare
Sonny Brooks had worn the soles off his shoes revisiting the scene of the crime, again and again. He'd left Tommy's briefly, only long enough to hit the Dunkin Donuts drive-thru. He returned with a medium coffee, drank it so fast it nearly scalded his stomach, and rushed the cup back to Receiving.
He placed it on the desk of Cheryl Johnson, the receiving department's manager.
"Do not touch this," Sonny said, and Cheryl arched a brow at him.
"Why?"
"I'm doing an experiment," Sonny said, his explanation not satisfying the curious clerk.
"About what?" Cheryl asked.
"Just leave the cup where I place it," Sonny demanded, and Cheryl shrugged.
Sonny Brooks returned to his office, by way of the men's room, and directed his attention to the monitor streaming in activity from Receiving. He'd returned to the bay twelve separate times. Cheryl Johnson stopped asking questions by his sixth visit, and figured Sonny had lost his marbles.
Sonny's legs and feet were killing him, and his investigation had provided zero results. The cup never moved. He had also made another important discovery. Under no circumstances did the cup simply vanish.
What the heck was going on?
Sonny left the store at 4:00 PM, and headed home. He'd enjoyed dinner with his family, and retreated to the living room while his wife headed upstairs for bath time with the children. At 9:00 PM, Sonny's wife was tucked into bed with a Danielle Steel novel, and Sonny sat on the couch, with the TV dark, staring at the Dunkin Donuts cup. It had been on the coffee table since 5:00 PM. It had never moved.
"What secrets do you hold?" Sonny asked the cup.
The cup remained silent.
****************
Two miles away, Miles Longworth sat in similar misery. He had spent four hours hiding in his man cave with the soiled envelope in his pocket. In the safety of the cave's bathroom, with the door locked, wearing his wife's pink flowered dish washing gloves, Miles had carefully removed the bills from the envelope. It held more money than Miles made in a year. Problem being - the money didn't belong to Miles.
"Dammit," Miles mumbled.
No matter how badly he needed it, he couldn't keep the money. It wasn't his. He had no idea why it had been where it had been, or who had left it there, but eventually, someone was likely to come looking for it, and Miles was pretty sure it wouldn't be a Boy Scout or someone peddling religious writings. It would be someone bad, and Miles began fearing for his safetly.
What the heck had he been thinking?
He had to take the money back to where he'd found it.
Miles tucked the money into the pocket of his robe, and tore up the stairs like a madman. He returned the flowered gloves to where he'd found them, and furiously wiped at the envelope with a paper towel to remove any prints he may have left behind.
The paper towel shredded beneath his fingers.
"Truth in advertising," Miles mumbled. The commercial showed one sheet of the world-famous towels cleaning up the mess of six toddlers. Plain and simple, the paper towels sucked.
Miles chucked the entire roll in the trash, and laid the envelope on the counter. He got the flowered gloves out of the cabinet again, slipped them on, grabbed the envelope, his car keys, and headed for the front door.
****************
Sonny Brooks sat in his wife's Lincoln Town Car, outside the receiving bay of Tommy's Tool Town. The car was mammoth, and needed to go to car heaven, but his wife loved it, so Sonny kept pouring money into it. To justify the amount of money he'd spent on repairs, Sonny's wife would need to drive the car for twenty more years.
Sonny sat in the dark, and flipped his flashlight on and off. On and off. On and off.
No truck was due, and no freight was expected. No night crew was present. It was the perfect time to investigate, with one problem.
Sonny Brooks was scared out of his wits.
The world had gone mad for ghosts. Every channel had a ghost hunting show. Sonny wasn't wild about the paranormal. He owned no paranormal investigative equipment, and had no desire to. He didn't seek out haunted places. He avoided them. If Sonny saw a ghost, he was gonna need a clean pair of trousers.
"Please, let there be no ghosts," Sonny whispered. Something picked at his brain, and he chuckled. "I do believe in spooks, I do believe in spooks," Sonny said, then shivered. Sonny did believe in spooks, and suddenly the idea of investigating held no appeal. Sonny turned the flashlight off, shifted in his seat, and reached for the keys hanging from the ignition.
Before he could start the car, something caught his attention. Something in the dark. Something that shouldn't be where it was.
A shadow man emerged from behind the dumpster.
Sonny Brooks screamed like a nine-year-old girl.
****************
Miles Longworth crouched behind the dumpster. He'd heard the scream, and he would swear, under oath, that his heart had stopped. Miles was pretty sure it had started on its own, as he felt it beating in his head. The sweatshirt he'd thrown on over the robe made him feel like he was being cooked, and he felt sweat beading beneath the hood he'd pulled over his head. The rubber gloves made his hands itch like hell. He couldn't imagine what he looked like.
Halloween gone bad. Halloween gone very, very bad.
A car roared to life, only a few feet from where Miles crouched. Against his better judgment, Miles peeked out from behind his hiding place. An enormous black car, the kind that transported bad, bad men, was parked in close proximity to the dumpster.
"Oh, God," Miles whispered. "I don't want to die." Miles feared death, but he also felt sick for his wife. She'd have to identify his body, and she'd be royally pissed about the gloves.
They were her favorite.
Be a man, were the words that ran through Miles' head. With more courage than he'd ever mustered in his life, Miles stepped from behind the dumpster. The wind caught his robe, and it flew out behind him. He raised his arms, and reached for the sky with his pink-flowered-glove covered hands. "The lord is my shepherd," Miles whispered.
Miles heard another scream, as the car lurched forward, then back, then foward. Throwing gravel, the car fled in the opposite direction.
Miles Longworth fainted.
He placed it on the desk of Cheryl Johnson, the receiving department's manager.
"Do not touch this," Sonny said, and Cheryl arched a brow at him.
"Why?"
"I'm doing an experiment," Sonny said, his explanation not satisfying the curious clerk.
"About what?" Cheryl asked.
"Just leave the cup where I place it," Sonny demanded, and Cheryl shrugged.
Sonny Brooks returned to his office, by way of the men's room, and directed his attention to the monitor streaming in activity from Receiving. He'd returned to the bay twelve separate times. Cheryl Johnson stopped asking questions by his sixth visit, and figured Sonny had lost his marbles.
Sonny's legs and feet were killing him, and his investigation had provided zero results. The cup never moved. He had also made another important discovery. Under no circumstances did the cup simply vanish.
What the heck was going on?
Sonny left the store at 4:00 PM, and headed home. He'd enjoyed dinner with his family, and retreated to the living room while his wife headed upstairs for bath time with the children. At 9:00 PM, Sonny's wife was tucked into bed with a Danielle Steel novel, and Sonny sat on the couch, with the TV dark, staring at the Dunkin Donuts cup. It had been on the coffee table since 5:00 PM. It had never moved.
"What secrets do you hold?" Sonny asked the cup.
The cup remained silent.
****************
Two miles away, Miles Longworth sat in similar misery. He had spent four hours hiding in his man cave with the soiled envelope in his pocket. In the safety of the cave's bathroom, with the door locked, wearing his wife's pink flowered dish washing gloves, Miles had carefully removed the bills from the envelope. It held more money than Miles made in a year. Problem being - the money didn't belong to Miles.
"Dammit," Miles mumbled.
No matter how badly he needed it, he couldn't keep the money. It wasn't his. He had no idea why it had been where it had been, or who had left it there, but eventually, someone was likely to come looking for it, and Miles was pretty sure it wouldn't be a Boy Scout or someone peddling religious writings. It would be someone bad, and Miles began fearing for his safetly.
What the heck had he been thinking?
He had to take the money back to where he'd found it.
Miles tucked the money into the pocket of his robe, and tore up the stairs like a madman. He returned the flowered gloves to where he'd found them, and furiously wiped at the envelope with a paper towel to remove any prints he may have left behind.
The paper towel shredded beneath his fingers.
"Truth in advertising," Miles mumbled. The commercial showed one sheet of the world-famous towels cleaning up the mess of six toddlers. Plain and simple, the paper towels sucked.
Miles chucked the entire roll in the trash, and laid the envelope on the counter. He got the flowered gloves out of the cabinet again, slipped them on, grabbed the envelope, his car keys, and headed for the front door.
****************
Sonny Brooks sat in his wife's Lincoln Town Car, outside the receiving bay of Tommy's Tool Town. The car was mammoth, and needed to go to car heaven, but his wife loved it, so Sonny kept pouring money into it. To justify the amount of money he'd spent on repairs, Sonny's wife would need to drive the car for twenty more years.
Sonny sat in the dark, and flipped his flashlight on and off. On and off. On and off.
No truck was due, and no freight was expected. No night crew was present. It was the perfect time to investigate, with one problem.
Sonny Brooks was scared out of his wits.
The world had gone mad for ghosts. Every channel had a ghost hunting show. Sonny wasn't wild about the paranormal. He owned no paranormal investigative equipment, and had no desire to. He didn't seek out haunted places. He avoided them. If Sonny saw a ghost, he was gonna need a clean pair of trousers.
"Please, let there be no ghosts," Sonny whispered. Something picked at his brain, and he chuckled. "I do believe in spooks, I do believe in spooks," Sonny said, then shivered. Sonny did believe in spooks, and suddenly the idea of investigating held no appeal. Sonny turned the flashlight off, shifted in his seat, and reached for the keys hanging from the ignition.
Before he could start the car, something caught his attention. Something in the dark. Something that shouldn't be where it was.
A shadow man emerged from behind the dumpster.
Sonny Brooks screamed like a nine-year-old girl.
****************
Miles Longworth crouched behind the dumpster. He'd heard the scream, and he would swear, under oath, that his heart had stopped. Miles was pretty sure it had started on its own, as he felt it beating in his head. The sweatshirt he'd thrown on over the robe made him feel like he was being cooked, and he felt sweat beading beneath the hood he'd pulled over his head. The rubber gloves made his hands itch like hell. He couldn't imagine what he looked like.
Halloween gone bad. Halloween gone very, very bad.
A car roared to life, only a few feet from where Miles crouched. Against his better judgment, Miles peeked out from behind his hiding place. An enormous black car, the kind that transported bad, bad men, was parked in close proximity to the dumpster.
"Oh, God," Miles whispered. "I don't want to die." Miles feared death, but he also felt sick for his wife. She'd have to identify his body, and she'd be royally pissed about the gloves.
They were her favorite.
Be a man, were the words that ran through Miles' head. With more courage than he'd ever mustered in his life, Miles stepped from behind the dumpster. The wind caught his robe, and it flew out behind him. He raised his arms, and reached for the sky with his pink-flowered-glove covered hands. "The lord is my shepherd," Miles whispered.
Miles heard another scream, as the car lurched forward, then back, then foward. Throwing gravel, the car fled in the opposite direction.
Miles Longworth fainted.
Friday, April 6, 2012
Tommy's Tool Town - Chapter 11 - At Home With Kitty
There was a simple advantage to rising two hours prior to the crack of dawn. Kitty Richardson was in her truck, in the Tommy parking lot, preparing to depart by 3:00 PM.
Kitty wasn't in any hurry to get home. Home wasn't fun. Tommy's wasn't always fun, but it sure beat home. Kitty turned the key in the ignition of her old Chevy, the truck roared to life with a pathetic growl, and the old beater backfired.
One row away, Penelope Ross hit the deck. Kitty saw the girl drop in the rear view mirror.
"You okay?" Kitty said, with her head out the driver's side window.
"Maybe I need to lay off the video games," Penelope admitted. "I thought I was being fired upon."
"Sorry about that. Charlie's on her death bed," Kitty said of the old truck.
"Bummer."
"No kidding."
"See you tomorrow, Kitty."
"See ya," Kitty called back. Penelope Ross got into her cute little red compact. Penelope could afford the sweet little car. She didn't have six ex-boyfriends who had all used her Mastercard.
Kitty's truck back fired again.
"Piece of crap," Kitty groaned. Reluctantly, Kitty put the truck in gear and headed home. Home was a single story rambler, with an in-law suite for an unmarried grand daughter, five minutes from the Tommy compound. It was filled with latch-hook rugs, old TV Guides, Madonna posters, and endless grumblings.
Stella Catherine Richardson, aka Kitty, spent half her life at Tommy's, and the other half taking care of her aging mother, Helen, and her fruitcake of a grandmother, Ada. Helen was seventy-five, and acted ninety. Ada was ninety-nine and acted twelve. Kitty lived in hell.
Kitty pulled into the driveway next to a behemoth Buick. Pink fuzzy dice hung from the Buick's mirror. The Buick belonged to Helen. The dice were Ada's doing.
"Mary, mother of God, give me strength," Kitty muttered as she exited her vehicle. She scuffed up the walk to the front door, then let herself inside.
The kitchen was filled with smoke.
"Hello??!!" Kitty yelled. "Does anyone realize the house is on fire?"
Family Feud screamed from the living room. Kitty found it fitting.
"Something's burning!!" Kitty yelled, and Ada appeared in the doorway.
"Shit!" Ada said, shuffling along in her pink Chuck Taylors. "We didn't hear you come in, dear. We were arguing about how long to leave the brownies in the oven."
"Well, whoever wanted to take them out an hour ago wins," Kitty said, and Ada shrugged.
"That would be her," Ada said.
"My name isn't 'her,'" Helen yelled. "It's Helen."
"They look okay," Ada said. She had opened the door to the oven, and had mostly disappeared into the billowing smoke. Only her pink sneakers were visible in the carnage. Ada emerged with a tray of blackened brownies.
"They're not okay, Gran. They're like a rock,"
"That's what the Fixodent is for," Ada said, and Kitty laughed.
"Why didn't the smoke detector go off?" Kitty asked.
"Oh, we always disconnect it when we cook," Ada explained.
"That might not be the best idea," Kitty explained.
Kitty let herself into the back of the house, into the wing addition that was Kitty's own private space. Three dogs met her at the door, with noses in the air.
"It's okay, babies. The old biddies were cooking again. Fire's under control."
"We heard that!" Helen yelled.
"They've bugged the place," Kitty whispered.
Kitty let the dogs out the back door, into the fenced-in area installed to precision by Tommy's Tool Town. Kitty checked her personal email, and the email account attached to a dating website for animal lovers. There were no emails, and Kitty was grateful. She'd had two dates in three years, and the last one had invited her over for dinner, then asked her to whisper so they didn't wake his mother.
Kitty sighed, and dealt with her despair like a normal person.
On Facebook.
An instant message popped up. It was Ada.
Ada: Helen wants to know what's for dinner.
Kitty: Arsenic chili
Ada: I'll lay out the Maalox.
Kitty: I love you, Gran.
Ada: I love you too, Stella.
Stella. No matter how many times Kitty asked them not to, they still called her Stella. She heard her name called at all hours of the day and night. "Stella! Stella! Stella!" It was A Streetcar Named Desire, 24/7.
An hour later, Kitty had dinner on the table. Helen had opted for a Stouffer's Pot Pie, and Ada gobbled up a Mac & Cheese with her Wonder Woman spoon.
"This is the best food ever. Imagine, in my day, women slaved for hours over dinner. Now it's ready in eight minutes, and it comes with its own bowl," Ada exclaimed in sheer wonderment.
"We didn't work. Now women work," Helen griped.
"I have to work," Kitty said.
"Because you don't have a husband," Helen reminded her.
"Don't start, mother," Kitty said.
"Arlene's grandson is single again," Ada said, through a mouthful of noodles.
"He's been married six times, Gran," Kitty said.
"Maybe he's good at it by now," Ada said, and Kitty laughed. "You know, it's really a shame about that lovely Stella. She's such a nice girl, and when she wears a good bra and the Maybelline, she looks ten years younger, and she's very kind to the animals. She's a good catch."
"I'm right here, Gran," Kitty said, and Ada dropped her spoon.
"I'm going bat shit. It's the age, and the nicotine gum," Ada whined. "I was a whole lot better off when I was on the Lucky Strikes."
"It's okay, Gran. Everyone's mind and body wears out. Look at Mom."
"Watch it, Stella. I'll kick you out."
"You'll burn the house down," Kitty said.
"At least I won't have to vacuum this dump anymore," Ada said, and everyone laughed. "Tell us about work, dear," Ada said, so Kitty did.
Kitty ran through her day, leaving little out.
"That poor Mags," Ada said.
"She's a hypochondriac," Helen said.
"No she's not. She has the scars to prove it. Besides, mother, a hypochondriac pretends to be ill, a hypochondriac doesn't pretend to get hit by a two-by-four."
"What's the word for someone who pretends to get hit by a two-by-four?" Helen asked.
"Bernice," Ada said with a wink. "Did you really have to go over bomb threats?"
"We did, Gran. It's a strange world we live in. We have to be prepared."
"I miss the eighties," Ada said.
"You're still in them, mother," Helen complained.
"I like the spandex. It's flexible when I have the gas," Ada explained, defensively. "Like now," Ada said.
"Speaking of bomb threats," Helen complained.
Wednesday, April 4, 2012
Tommy's Tool Town - Chapter 10 - A Ghost in the Midst?
After what felt like a lifetime, Reeve Stockwell finished up with the rope customer, and against his better judgment, he decided not to buy a length for himself. He could still hear muted laughter coming from his office.
"I am going to kill them," he mumbled as he walked.
Stockwell pulled the phone from his back pocket, and punched in three numbers. Sonny Brooks, head of security, answered on the first ring.
"Brooks," Sonny said.
"Stockwell," Reeve replied.
"Brooks," Sonny said.
"Do not start with me today, Sonny."
"My apologies, Mr. Stockwell, how may I be of assistance?"
"You're still messing with me," Stockwell said, and Sonny laughed.
"I am. What's up?"
"You in the middle of something?" Reeve Stockwell asked.
"Not at the moment."
"Great. Meet me at my office."
"Something wrong?" Sonny asked.
"Kitty and Mags are in there with the cashiers. They're going over the bomb threat procedures."
"Dear God. I'll be right there."
Sonny hung up.
Two minutes later, Reeve Stockwell was pounding on the door to his office.
"Who's there?" Kitty called, her voice raw from laughing.
"Stockwell."
"Shit," Kitty whispered.
"I can hear you!" Reeve said, louder than he'd intended.
Kitty opened the door a sliver.
"Let me in," Reeve Stockwell demanded.
Kitty did. Stockwell entered his office. Bernice and Penelope were doubled over. Lucie and Amber were blotting their eyes. Mags had tears running down her face.
"I trusted you," Stockwell said to Kitty, who did her best to look regretful.
"I tried. Really I did," Kitty said defensively.
"I should fire you," Stockwell said, and Kitty laughed, which only irritated him more.
"And who would you hire? Who else could measure your insulin level just by looking at you?" Kitty asked.
"You are a pain in my - "
Stockwell was interrupted by a rap at the door. He opened the door and Sonny Brooks stepped inside.
The room was small, ten by ten, and it was packed to the hilt.
"All right, ladies. Squeeze together. Incidentally, they can hear you laughing in the appliance department. Come on, people. Bomb threats are a serious subject, so much so, I've asked Sonny to help us out here."
"If any of you have had bean burritos in the last twenty-four hours you may leave now," Sonny said, and Bernice and Penelope both cracked up.
"I asked you here to help," Stockwell griped, glaring at Sonny Brooks.
"Reeve is right. This is serious," Sonny said. "We live in a strange and explosive world, where people often resort to violence to solve problems."
"You're quoting the video," Kitty said.
"How far did you get with the training, Kitty?" Sonny asked.
"We got to the part about getting the Cashier's Manual," Lucie Goosie said.
"That's the third line," Reeve Stockwell growled.
"Everything went to hell from there," Mags said.
"All right. I've got to get back to the floor," Stockwell said. "Sonny is going to take ten minutes to talk to you about what to do in the event of a bomb threat. If one of you speaks, I will kill you."
"That's against policy," Bernice said.
"It's only against policy if I actually kill you, which I won't, if you remain silent for ten minutes," Stockwell said.
Reeve Stockwell left his office. Sonny Brooks followed, leaving the office long enough to get the Cashier's Manual. The front end was so quiet you could have heard a pin drop. Sonny returned in less than a minute.
"Bomb threat procedures are in each department's manual. There are specific questions you should ask the caller. Familiarize yourself with these questions. For instance, ask the caller what the bomb looks like, and where it is. Take each call seriously. Kitty and Mags, please pass the instructions to each of your cashiers and have them initial the back once they've read them. Does anyone have any questions?"
No one did.
The explanation had taken less than four minutes.
*****************************
The cashiers filed out of Stockwell's office. Tommy's front end was in full swing, with customers lining up to pay for their purchases. The cashiers dispersed, and Sonny strolled back to his office.
His stomach growled, and he anticipated heating up the massive bean burrito his wife had made the night before. He'd pay for it for hours, but there was more than one advantage to having one's own private office.
Sonny swung by the break room, grabbed his lunch pail from the refrigerator, and nuked the burrito for two minutes. He put it back in his lunch pail and returned to his office.
Safely inside, he dug into the mess like someone who hadn't eaten in weeks. In three minutes, the burrito was gone. He wished he had another.
He didn't.
Sonny settled back in his chair and popped a Zantac. He had three hours remaining in his shift, and he settled back to review the security tapes from the night before. Tommy's had an elaborate surveillance system, and Sonny had a trained eye. He could watch several tapes at once, his eyes flitting from one screen to another, and Sonny rarely missed anything.
At 7:00 PM, the evening before, Penelope, Bernice and Lucie had performed the Macarena in the vestibule. They'd done fairly well with it.
Mags was sweeping, with her back to the show.
At 7:30, Bernice and Penelope had filled the drink cooler. Bernice furiously shook two cans of Coke and placed them in the front row on the second shelf, far right hand side.
Sonny decided to pretend he hadn't seen that.
"Damn kids," Sonny muttered.
Mags dropped two bottles of Diet Mountain Dew. They'd rolled as if propelled by magic, and had come to rest in the middle of the electrical department. Sonny wasn't all that surprised, and let that one go, too.
Just before closing, Penelope and Lucie had taken the trash and recycling to the receiving area. Lucie had given Penelope a ride back in the cart, just past closing time.
Against store policy, but not worth the hassle.
At 10:10, Mags dropped a till that was mercifully empty. Reeve Stockwell jumped so high his feet left the ground. Sonny replayed the segment, which was just as funny the second time around. Sonny laughed with vigor, and his stomach rumbled.
He popped another Zantac.
Sonny watched the segment a third time, not all that surprised by Stockwell's reaction to Mag's clumsiness. Stockwell had killed a King Size Butterfinger at 8:49 PM.
The eye in the sky is always watching, Sonny thought, feeling a little rush of power.
For duty's sake, Sonny Brooks concentrated on the tape from the receiving bay. No freight had been due in the night before, and Sonny grew quickly bored, watching an empty room.
One of the day crew had left a Dunkin Donuts cup behind. There was one consistency in business. Someone was always cleaning up after someone else.
Sonny reached into his desk for a peppermint. The burrito was tearing him apart. He kept his eyes on the screen in front of him, as he unwrapped the mint.
"What the hell?" he whispered.
Sonny rewound the tape.
"No way," he said.
Sonny rewound the tape again, feeling his abdomen tighten in fear and confusion.
One minute the Dunkin Donuts cup was there. The next, it was gone. The cup vanished before his eyes.
The store had been closed. No night crew was on duty. No one entered the room. Not a burgler, an animal, or David Copperfield.
"What in the sam hell?" Sonny said.
He watched the tape a third time. A fourth. A fifth. His hand shook as he furiously pressed buttons.
Sonny Brooks could draw only one conclusion.
Tommy's Tool Town was haunted.
"I am going to kill them," he mumbled as he walked.
Stockwell pulled the phone from his back pocket, and punched in three numbers. Sonny Brooks, head of security, answered on the first ring.
"Brooks," Sonny said.
"Stockwell," Reeve replied.
"Brooks," Sonny said.
"Do not start with me today, Sonny."
"My apologies, Mr. Stockwell, how may I be of assistance?"
"You're still messing with me," Stockwell said, and Sonny laughed.
"I am. What's up?"
"You in the middle of something?" Reeve Stockwell asked.
"Not at the moment."
"Great. Meet me at my office."
"Something wrong?" Sonny asked.
"Kitty and Mags are in there with the cashiers. They're going over the bomb threat procedures."
"Dear God. I'll be right there."
Sonny hung up.
Two minutes later, Reeve Stockwell was pounding on the door to his office.
"Who's there?" Kitty called, her voice raw from laughing.
"Stockwell."
"Shit," Kitty whispered.
"I can hear you!" Reeve said, louder than he'd intended.
Kitty opened the door a sliver.
"Let me in," Reeve Stockwell demanded.
Kitty did. Stockwell entered his office. Bernice and Penelope were doubled over. Lucie and Amber were blotting their eyes. Mags had tears running down her face.
"I trusted you," Stockwell said to Kitty, who did her best to look regretful.
"I tried. Really I did," Kitty said defensively.
"I should fire you," Stockwell said, and Kitty laughed, which only irritated him more.
"And who would you hire? Who else could measure your insulin level just by looking at you?" Kitty asked.
"You are a pain in my - "
Stockwell was interrupted by a rap at the door. He opened the door and Sonny Brooks stepped inside.
The room was small, ten by ten, and it was packed to the hilt.
"All right, ladies. Squeeze together. Incidentally, they can hear you laughing in the appliance department. Come on, people. Bomb threats are a serious subject, so much so, I've asked Sonny to help us out here."
"If any of you have had bean burritos in the last twenty-four hours you may leave now," Sonny said, and Bernice and Penelope both cracked up.
"I asked you here to help," Stockwell griped, glaring at Sonny Brooks.
"Reeve is right. This is serious," Sonny said. "We live in a strange and explosive world, where people often resort to violence to solve problems."
"You're quoting the video," Kitty said.
"How far did you get with the training, Kitty?" Sonny asked.
"We got to the part about getting the Cashier's Manual," Lucie Goosie said.
"That's the third line," Reeve Stockwell growled.
"Everything went to hell from there," Mags said.
"All right. I've got to get back to the floor," Stockwell said. "Sonny is going to take ten minutes to talk to you about what to do in the event of a bomb threat. If one of you speaks, I will kill you."
"That's against policy," Bernice said.
"It's only against policy if I actually kill you, which I won't, if you remain silent for ten minutes," Stockwell said.
Reeve Stockwell left his office. Sonny Brooks followed, leaving the office long enough to get the Cashier's Manual. The front end was so quiet you could have heard a pin drop. Sonny returned in less than a minute.
"Bomb threat procedures are in each department's manual. There are specific questions you should ask the caller. Familiarize yourself with these questions. For instance, ask the caller what the bomb looks like, and where it is. Take each call seriously. Kitty and Mags, please pass the instructions to each of your cashiers and have them initial the back once they've read them. Does anyone have any questions?"
No one did.
The explanation had taken less than four minutes.
*****************************
The cashiers filed out of Stockwell's office. Tommy's front end was in full swing, with customers lining up to pay for their purchases. The cashiers dispersed, and Sonny strolled back to his office.
His stomach growled, and he anticipated heating up the massive bean burrito his wife had made the night before. He'd pay for it for hours, but there was more than one advantage to having one's own private office.
Sonny swung by the break room, grabbed his lunch pail from the refrigerator, and nuked the burrito for two minutes. He put it back in his lunch pail and returned to his office.
Safely inside, he dug into the mess like someone who hadn't eaten in weeks. In three minutes, the burrito was gone. He wished he had another.
He didn't.
Sonny settled back in his chair and popped a Zantac. He had three hours remaining in his shift, and he settled back to review the security tapes from the night before. Tommy's had an elaborate surveillance system, and Sonny had a trained eye. He could watch several tapes at once, his eyes flitting from one screen to another, and Sonny rarely missed anything.
At 7:00 PM, the evening before, Penelope, Bernice and Lucie had performed the Macarena in the vestibule. They'd done fairly well with it.
Mags was sweeping, with her back to the show.
At 7:30, Bernice and Penelope had filled the drink cooler. Bernice furiously shook two cans of Coke and placed them in the front row on the second shelf, far right hand side.
Sonny decided to pretend he hadn't seen that.
"Damn kids," Sonny muttered.
Mags dropped two bottles of Diet Mountain Dew. They'd rolled as if propelled by magic, and had come to rest in the middle of the electrical department. Sonny wasn't all that surprised, and let that one go, too.
Just before closing, Penelope and Lucie had taken the trash and recycling to the receiving area. Lucie had given Penelope a ride back in the cart, just past closing time.
Against store policy, but not worth the hassle.
At 10:10, Mags dropped a till that was mercifully empty. Reeve Stockwell jumped so high his feet left the ground. Sonny replayed the segment, which was just as funny the second time around. Sonny laughed with vigor, and his stomach rumbled.
He popped another Zantac.
Sonny watched the segment a third time, not all that surprised by Stockwell's reaction to Mag's clumsiness. Stockwell had killed a King Size Butterfinger at 8:49 PM.
The eye in the sky is always watching, Sonny thought, feeling a little rush of power.
For duty's sake, Sonny Brooks concentrated on the tape from the receiving bay. No freight had been due in the night before, and Sonny grew quickly bored, watching an empty room.
One of the day crew had left a Dunkin Donuts cup behind. There was one consistency in business. Someone was always cleaning up after someone else.
Sonny reached into his desk for a peppermint. The burrito was tearing him apart. He kept his eyes on the screen in front of him, as he unwrapped the mint.
"What the hell?" he whispered.
Sonny rewound the tape.
"No way," he said.
Sonny rewound the tape again, feeling his abdomen tighten in fear and confusion.
One minute the Dunkin Donuts cup was there. The next, it was gone. The cup vanished before his eyes.
The store had been closed. No night crew was on duty. No one entered the room. Not a burgler, an animal, or David Copperfield.
"What in the sam hell?" Sonny said.
He watched the tape a third time. A fourth. A fifth. His hand shook as he furiously pressed buttons.
Sonny Brooks could draw only one conclusion.
Tommy's Tool Town was haunted.
Monday, April 2, 2012
Tommy's Tool Town - Chapter 9 - In Case of a Bomb Threat
Promptly at 11:00 AM, Slick Mitchell opened the door of the training room and the Tool Towners filed out. The video had been asinine, for the most part, depicting a dozen retail associates calmly handling the call of a madman.
Slick couldn't imagine his crew handling any threat to the Tommy store with such efficiency or calm. Not that his folks were idiots, because they certainly were not. His folks had wild imaginations. Kitty Richardson would be busy penning a Pulitzer-prize-winning-quality article before the call ended. Bernice Lord would be posting it on Facebook, and Penelope Ross would be taking videos of Tool Towners falling over each other.
Mags Davidson would probably be killed in the pandemonium.
Slick Mitchell could only pray that such a thing never happened.
He'd instructed each manager to go over the protocol with the associates in their departments. He figured most of them would do all right, explaining the odd procedures to their staff.
What worried him was the three knuckleheads on the front end. The front end was, in reality, the first line of defense in any retail warfare. Customers were greeted by employees on the front end, upon entering. Customers completed their Tommy experience on the front end.
Like Stockwell, Slick Mitchell adored the three ladies who comandeered the front-end staff, but he worried about their mental state, from time to time. Mags was the most lovable walking disaster he'd ever met. Barbie was adorable, more so because she carried herself in a way that suggested she really didn't know. And, Kitty. Kitty was a story all in herself, a story that was too farcical to believe, unless it was Kitty's.
Slick Mitchell got the occasional complaint about the front end, but nothing that was unique to Tommy's alone. Retail customers were hard to please, and sometimes had ridiculous expectations. Slick imagined cashing out on Tommy's front end was rather like going to the circus and leaving with a complimentary screw driver. So far, so good. At least they were smiling when they left, and how could they not, when every customer who set off Tommy's elaborate magnetic inventory security system, was met by Mags yelling "freeze."
One day, some old lady is gonna have a heart attack, Slick considered. He also considered that Mags probably knew CPR, although she wouldn't ever have the opportunity to use it on herself. In a room full of random people, Mags would be most likely to need CPR.
Slick worried about how the bomb threat explanation was going on the front end, but he had to have faith in his people. He knew the material, but he had to wonder how the dynamic trio would deliver it to their subordinates.
*****************************
On the front end, the troops had been gathered. Val Jones and JJ Patricks had been left to control the customers, and all other cashiers had been herded into Reeve Stockwell's office. Barbie Baxter offered to supervise at the front door, leaving Mags and Kitty to go over bomb threat procedures.
Stockwell unlocked his office door, and let everyone inside. Slick Mitchell was on the hunt for Miles Longworth, who had not returned to the meeting, leaving Stockwell to manage the floor of Tommy's. He had to leave Kitty and Mags unsupervised to deliver the procedures to their staff, which could ultimately cause more harm than an actual bomb.
"Don't mess this up or I'll kill you," Stockwell said, low enough that only Mags and Kitty could hear his threat.
"How could we mess it up?" Kitty said. "We'll just follow protocol."
"And you've done that when?" Stockwell asked.
"Trust us," Mags said, and Stockwell forced himself to look into her eyes, and not at the giant goose egg on the side of her head.
"If there's ever been a time when I'd like to, this would be it," Stockwell said. "Just don't let me down."
"No problem, boss," Mags said, closing the door in Stockwell's face, but gently.
"Can I go home?" Bernice asked, and Mags rolled her eyes.
"Yes," Kitty said.
"I can?" Bernice asked, incredulously.
"At 4:00," Kitty advised.
"That's when my shift ends," Bernice whined.
"And that's why you may leave at that time," Kitty replied.
"You're mean," Bernice complained.
"I am not," Kitty said. "Gather round, gang, and let's talk about the exciting topic of what to do in case of a bomb threat."
"I like turtles," Bernice said, being obviously obstinate.
"Bernice, if you do not stop talking, I will tape your mouth shut," Mags said, although she was smiling.
"That's against policy," Penelope Ross said, defending her best friend.
"There is nothing in the policy against taping someone's mouth shut," Kitty advised.
"Well, there certainly should be," Lucie Goosman said. Lucie Goosman, better known as Lucie Goosie, was a member of Tommy's younger generation, and was always quick to defend her co-workers. Lucie loved everyone, and looked for the best in each person she met. She probably thought it was wonderful that Bernice liked turtles. She'd have never considered that quoting the viral You Tube phrase was Bernice's idea of being disruptive.
"I like......," Bernice said, smiling her dazzling smile.
"Don't even think about it," Mags said. "Come on, guys, can we be serious for like five minutes?"
"Who, us?" Penelope asked.
"Yes. Surprise us. Pretend you're paying attention," Kitty pleaded.
"You know, policies and procedures date back to biblical times," Wilton Scott piped in. Wilton enjoyed quoting philosophers, sci-fi movies, literary masterpieces, and had a factoid for every situation.
"Wilton, while we appreciate your endless factoids, now may not be the time," Kitty said with a smile.
"Duly noted," Wilton said respectfully.
"Can we talk about bombs?" Kitty asked.
"The thing about bombs," Wilton began, before Kitty cut him off. "My apologies, Miss Kitty," Wilton said.
"In the event of a bomb threat, refer to the Cashier's Manual," Kitty read from a printed sheet in her hand.
"It says that?" Mags asked.
"It says 'refer to your department manual for specific instruction,'" Kitty read.
"Wow," Mags said, looking confused.
"We're supposed to go get the manual?" Amber Martin asked.
"It would seem," Mags said, furrowing her brow.
"Do we put the caller on hold?" Amber asked, and although she sounded serious, Bernice and Penelope began laughing hysterically.
"Thank you for calling about the bomb, please enjoy some music while we get the Cashier's Manual," Lucie Goosie practically sang, and Kitty and Mags joined in the hysterical laughter.
"This does not seem to be working," Kitty whispered, breathless from laughing.
"All right, gang, new policy. If we ever have a bomb threat, we'll have Stockwell handle it," Mags said.
Reeve Stockwell was assisting a customer in aisle three, and had explained everything known to man about different kinds of rope. He could hear faint laughter coming from his office, and he wondered if he should buy some rope for himself.
Slick couldn't imagine his crew handling any threat to the Tommy store with such efficiency or calm. Not that his folks were idiots, because they certainly were not. His folks had wild imaginations. Kitty Richardson would be busy penning a Pulitzer-prize-winning-quality article before the call ended. Bernice Lord would be posting it on Facebook, and Penelope Ross would be taking videos of Tool Towners falling over each other.
Mags Davidson would probably be killed in the pandemonium.
Slick Mitchell could only pray that such a thing never happened.
He'd instructed each manager to go over the protocol with the associates in their departments. He figured most of them would do all right, explaining the odd procedures to their staff.
What worried him was the three knuckleheads on the front end. The front end was, in reality, the first line of defense in any retail warfare. Customers were greeted by employees on the front end, upon entering. Customers completed their Tommy experience on the front end.
Like Stockwell, Slick Mitchell adored the three ladies who comandeered the front-end staff, but he worried about their mental state, from time to time. Mags was the most lovable walking disaster he'd ever met. Barbie was adorable, more so because she carried herself in a way that suggested she really didn't know. And, Kitty. Kitty was a story all in herself, a story that was too farcical to believe, unless it was Kitty's.
Slick Mitchell got the occasional complaint about the front end, but nothing that was unique to Tommy's alone. Retail customers were hard to please, and sometimes had ridiculous expectations. Slick imagined cashing out on Tommy's front end was rather like going to the circus and leaving with a complimentary screw driver. So far, so good. At least they were smiling when they left, and how could they not, when every customer who set off Tommy's elaborate magnetic inventory security system, was met by Mags yelling "freeze."
One day, some old lady is gonna have a heart attack, Slick considered. He also considered that Mags probably knew CPR, although she wouldn't ever have the opportunity to use it on herself. In a room full of random people, Mags would be most likely to need CPR.
Slick worried about how the bomb threat explanation was going on the front end, but he had to have faith in his people. He knew the material, but he had to wonder how the dynamic trio would deliver it to their subordinates.
*****************************
On the front end, the troops had been gathered. Val Jones and JJ Patricks had been left to control the customers, and all other cashiers had been herded into Reeve Stockwell's office. Barbie Baxter offered to supervise at the front door, leaving Mags and Kitty to go over bomb threat procedures.
Stockwell unlocked his office door, and let everyone inside. Slick Mitchell was on the hunt for Miles Longworth, who had not returned to the meeting, leaving Stockwell to manage the floor of Tommy's. He had to leave Kitty and Mags unsupervised to deliver the procedures to their staff, which could ultimately cause more harm than an actual bomb.
"Don't mess this up or I'll kill you," Stockwell said, low enough that only Mags and Kitty could hear his threat.
"How could we mess it up?" Kitty said. "We'll just follow protocol."
"And you've done that when?" Stockwell asked.
"Trust us," Mags said, and Stockwell forced himself to look into her eyes, and not at the giant goose egg on the side of her head.
"If there's ever been a time when I'd like to, this would be it," Stockwell said. "Just don't let me down."
"No problem, boss," Mags said, closing the door in Stockwell's face, but gently.
"Can I go home?" Bernice asked, and Mags rolled her eyes.
"Yes," Kitty said.
"I can?" Bernice asked, incredulously.
"At 4:00," Kitty advised.
"That's when my shift ends," Bernice whined.
"And that's why you may leave at that time," Kitty replied.
"You're mean," Bernice complained.
"I am not," Kitty said. "Gather round, gang, and let's talk about the exciting topic of what to do in case of a bomb threat."
"I like turtles," Bernice said, being obviously obstinate.
"Bernice, if you do not stop talking, I will tape your mouth shut," Mags said, although she was smiling.
"That's against policy," Penelope Ross said, defending her best friend.
"There is nothing in the policy against taping someone's mouth shut," Kitty advised.
"Well, there certainly should be," Lucie Goosman said. Lucie Goosman, better known as Lucie Goosie, was a member of Tommy's younger generation, and was always quick to defend her co-workers. Lucie loved everyone, and looked for the best in each person she met. She probably thought it was wonderful that Bernice liked turtles. She'd have never considered that quoting the viral You Tube phrase was Bernice's idea of being disruptive.
"I like......," Bernice said, smiling her dazzling smile.
"Don't even think about it," Mags said. "Come on, guys, can we be serious for like five minutes?"
"Who, us?" Penelope asked.
"Yes. Surprise us. Pretend you're paying attention," Kitty pleaded.
"You know, policies and procedures date back to biblical times," Wilton Scott piped in. Wilton enjoyed quoting philosophers, sci-fi movies, literary masterpieces, and had a factoid for every situation.
"Wilton, while we appreciate your endless factoids, now may not be the time," Kitty said with a smile.
"Duly noted," Wilton said respectfully.
"Can we talk about bombs?" Kitty asked.
"The thing about bombs," Wilton began, before Kitty cut him off. "My apologies, Miss Kitty," Wilton said.
"In the event of a bomb threat, refer to the Cashier's Manual," Kitty read from a printed sheet in her hand.
"It says that?" Mags asked.
"It says 'refer to your department manual for specific instruction,'" Kitty read.
"Wow," Mags said, looking confused.
"We're supposed to go get the manual?" Amber Martin asked.
"It would seem," Mags said, furrowing her brow.
"Do we put the caller on hold?" Amber asked, and although she sounded serious, Bernice and Penelope began laughing hysterically.
"Thank you for calling about the bomb, please enjoy some music while we get the Cashier's Manual," Lucie Goosie practically sang, and Kitty and Mags joined in the hysterical laughter.
"This does not seem to be working," Kitty whispered, breathless from laughing.
"All right, gang, new policy. If we ever have a bomb threat, we'll have Stockwell handle it," Mags said.
Reeve Stockwell was assisting a customer in aisle three, and had explained everything known to man about different kinds of rope. He could hear faint laughter coming from his office, and he wondered if he should buy some rope for himself.
Sunday, April 1, 2012
Tommy's Tool Town - Chapter 8 - The Manager's Meeting
By 10:00 AM, Mags Davidson was on the mend, and sitting upright in the Tool Town Training facility. The training facility amounted to a single room with cement walls, and four postage-stamp-size windows. Metal folding chairs had been assembled around the rectangular table. Mags sat in a plush rolling chair, in case she needed to be whisked away quickly for further medical attention. Kitty Richardson and Barbie Baxter sat on each side of her.
"How's your head?" Kitty asked Mags, as the managers began filing in, each holding a neon Tommy coffee mug.
"It feels like I got hit by a two-by-four," Mags said.
"Can I ask you a question?" Barbie said, smiling a dazzling smile.
"Sure," Mags said.
"How'd you ever survive your childhood, Mags?"
"Plastic bubble," Mags quipped.
"Did you ever meet John Travolta?" Barbie asked with a giggle.
"No, but I got his used bubble," Mags said.
At that moment, Reeve Stockwell strolled in, carrying a liter-size bottle of Mountain Dew. All three women groaned.
"You distract him, Kitty, and I'll grab the Dew," Barbie whispered.
"Too late. He's killed half of it already," Kitty said quietly.
"He's making notes, and he has the shakes," Mags whispered. "Look at him. No, wait. Don't look at him, he's looking at us."
"He hates us," Barbie said.
"He does not," Kitty said defensively. "We just drive him nuts. Besides, he only hates me, because I keep throwing his fritters out when he's not looking."
"I'll bet there are some seriously sugar-high wildlife specimens living by our dumpster," Mags said, a little too loudly, and all three women laughed.
"You three behave or I'll split you up," Reeve chastised from his position in front of the group. Miles Longworth had taken the chair next to Stockwell. He studied a folder open in front of him. Suddenly he looked up.
"Did you say something about the dumpster?" Miles said, directing his question at Mags, Barbie and Kitty.
"We were making a joke about it," Mags said. "Why?"
"I was just curious," Miles said, looking anxious.
"You got a body hidden in there, Miles?" Kitty asked, and Miles went pale.
"Why would you say a thing like that?" Miles asked.
"She always says crazy shit like that," Mags said.
"We need to talk about your profanity, Mags," Reeve Stockwell said, his voice firm.
"I want to know why they think I have a body hidden in the dumpster," Miles said, and Reeve Stockwell rolled his eyes and shook his head.
"This is why I hate meetings," Reeve said.
"Seriously, why do you think that, Kitty? Did you see something?" Miles asked.
"Miles, shut the hell up," Stockwell said, sounding seriously irritated.
"People please," Slick Mitchell said. No one had heard him come into the room. Everyone was busy swearing, and speculating about the serial killer tendencies of Miles Longworth. The women put a cork in it, and Miles looked like someone who desperately needed to use the bathroom.
"I'll be right back," Miles said, and Slick Mitchell tossed his pile of papers on the table.
"Make it quick, Miles. We need to talk about sales, and watch a video," Slick explained.
"Is it Justin Bieber?" Barbie asked, and Slick threw her a look that shut her up instantly.
"I hope it isn't a video of me," Mags said, sounding forlorn.
"You could have your own safety video," Kitty said, and Slick Mitchell starting gritting his teeth.
"That's the kind of stuff that goes viral," Barbie said. "Too bad someone didn't get a clip of you getting clocked with the wood this morning."
"That's mean," Mags whined.
"I suppose, but look at that zombie kid. He's gonna go to a job interview in fifteen years and someone's gonna ask him if he likes turtles," Barbie said, and everyone laughed.
"People, please!" Slick Mitchell said. "Do you think it would be too much to ask to discuss some kind of Tommy business when we're assembled in this room? When Miles returns, if he ever does," Slick said, looking at his watch, "we're going to go over some figures, toss around a couples of "atta boys," and watch a serious video about bomb threats. Then, if you all don't shut up, I'm gonna plant a bomb somewhere so I can get a whole new staff. Maybe I'll get people who are willing to talk about business in a BUSINESS MEETING!"
"Jeez Louise," Mags whispered.
"Is that a threat?" a voice sounded from the back of the room.
"Consider it a promise," Slick said, and the room grew incredibly quiet. "Now I know you all think I just stroll around here for name's sake, and don't give a shit about this place, and Stockwell, if you say anything about my use of profanity, I'll drag my ninety-five-year-old grandfather down here and have him fire your ass."
Stockwell spit Moutain Dew on the table in front of him.
"Excuse me?" he said, and Slick looked at him.
"Just seeing if you're with me," Slick said. "Lay off the sugar, man. You're an important part of this family. I don't want you to wreck your car some night on a dark road, because you're reaching for a fritter."
"Thanks, I think.... You know, I bring a lot more to this store than thousands of calories in the form of high fructose corn syrup," Stockwell said.
"No one's arguing that. I'd just like to see Kitty spending as much time training cashiers as she is keeping notes in the Stockwell food journal."
"That's uncalled for," Kitty said.
"I'm beginning to like meetings. This is like the best one ever," Mags Davidson said.
"Mags, put a sock in it. You could learn to watch where you're going. You've single-handedly increased the cost of our worker's comp insurance by four-hundred percent. Pretty soon I'm going to start docking your paycheck," Slick said.
"Take a chill pill," Mags said, and an audible gasp rose from the crowd.
Now look it, everybody," Slick said. "Let's start over. Let's pretend that Miles is actually here, and let's get down to business. What I was trying to say before the sun hit Stockwell's Mountain Dew and I was distracted by dancing prisms, is that I sincerely care about this store, and the people in it, and not just customers, because a lot of them really try our patience. I care about you, the Tommy family. So much so that I am going to play a larger role in how this Tommy's is run. We're going to look closer at policy, and see what works and what doesn't, and, Kitty, don't look so panic striken, you can still wear all your paraphernalia.
"Thanks, Slick," Kitty whispered.
"Wouldn't be Kitty without it," Mags said, and Kitty smiled.
"Let's break for five, grab some fresh coffee, and hopefully our donuts will be delivered by then, and we'll see what this bomb threat video is about. I'm sorry I said I was going to blow up the store. I was only kidding."
"Thank God," Nichole Deans said. "I just redid the entire kitchen display area. If you blow that up, I'll come back as a ghost and haunt you for all eternity," Nichole warned.
"I'll consider myself warned," Slick said. "Incidentally, Nichole is tearing things up with her design ideas. And, as long as she keeps up the good work, we'll stop measuring the size of her earrings."
"Thanks, Slick," Nichole said, with a satisfied smile.
"All right, let's break," Slick said.
Tommy Tool Towners scattered like cock roaches, leaving only a few choice players behind.
Nichole Deans remained, and stood typing a text message, with lightening speed.
Kitty waved to Nichole, who normally stood in the back of the room, probably because she couldn't sit in her mini-skirts. Kitty and Nichole had become confidants in their passion for creating a better Tommy's, and often hob knobbed over how to keep Stockwell alive. Kitty secretly coveted some of Nichole's earrings, and her design abilities. Kitty lived with her mother and ancient grandmother, and wondered if Nichole could design a sound proof kitchen. Kitty's life would improve immensely if she couldn't hear the two old biddies bickering as they argued over how to stack the dishes in the dish drainer.
"What happened to Mags this time?" Nichole asked, making her way to where the three cashier managers still sat.
"Beaned by some two-by-fours," Barbie said.
"Wasn't it a similar thing last time?" Nichole asked.
"Nope," Barbie said. "Last time it was a toilet to the foot."
"Gotcha," Nichole said. "I've gotta hit the girl's room. "Don't let Stockwell near the donuts."
"We won't," Barbie, Kitty, and Mags said in unison.
"How's your head?" Kitty asked Mags, as the managers began filing in, each holding a neon Tommy coffee mug.
"It feels like I got hit by a two-by-four," Mags said.
"Can I ask you a question?" Barbie said, smiling a dazzling smile.
"Sure," Mags said.
"How'd you ever survive your childhood, Mags?"
"Plastic bubble," Mags quipped.
"Did you ever meet John Travolta?" Barbie asked with a giggle.
"No, but I got his used bubble," Mags said.
At that moment, Reeve Stockwell strolled in, carrying a liter-size bottle of Mountain Dew. All three women groaned.
"You distract him, Kitty, and I'll grab the Dew," Barbie whispered.
"Too late. He's killed half of it already," Kitty said quietly.
"He's making notes, and he has the shakes," Mags whispered. "Look at him. No, wait. Don't look at him, he's looking at us."
"He hates us," Barbie said.
"He does not," Kitty said defensively. "We just drive him nuts. Besides, he only hates me, because I keep throwing his fritters out when he's not looking."
"I'll bet there are some seriously sugar-high wildlife specimens living by our dumpster," Mags said, a little too loudly, and all three women laughed.
"You three behave or I'll split you up," Reeve chastised from his position in front of the group. Miles Longworth had taken the chair next to Stockwell. He studied a folder open in front of him. Suddenly he looked up.
"Did you say something about the dumpster?" Miles said, directing his question at Mags, Barbie and Kitty.
"We were making a joke about it," Mags said. "Why?"
"I was just curious," Miles said, looking anxious.
"You got a body hidden in there, Miles?" Kitty asked, and Miles went pale.
"Why would you say a thing like that?" Miles asked.
"She always says crazy shit like that," Mags said.
"We need to talk about your profanity, Mags," Reeve Stockwell said, his voice firm.
"I want to know why they think I have a body hidden in the dumpster," Miles said, and Reeve Stockwell rolled his eyes and shook his head.
"This is why I hate meetings," Reeve said.
"Seriously, why do you think that, Kitty? Did you see something?" Miles asked.
"Miles, shut the hell up," Stockwell said, sounding seriously irritated.
"People please," Slick Mitchell said. No one had heard him come into the room. Everyone was busy swearing, and speculating about the serial killer tendencies of Miles Longworth. The women put a cork in it, and Miles looked like someone who desperately needed to use the bathroom.
"I'll be right back," Miles said, and Slick Mitchell tossed his pile of papers on the table.
"Make it quick, Miles. We need to talk about sales, and watch a video," Slick explained.
"Is it Justin Bieber?" Barbie asked, and Slick threw her a look that shut her up instantly.
"I hope it isn't a video of me," Mags said, sounding forlorn.
"You could have your own safety video," Kitty said, and Slick Mitchell starting gritting his teeth.
"That's the kind of stuff that goes viral," Barbie said. "Too bad someone didn't get a clip of you getting clocked with the wood this morning."
"That's mean," Mags whined.
"I suppose, but look at that zombie kid. He's gonna go to a job interview in fifteen years and someone's gonna ask him if he likes turtles," Barbie said, and everyone laughed.
"People, please!" Slick Mitchell said. "Do you think it would be too much to ask to discuss some kind of Tommy business when we're assembled in this room? When Miles returns, if he ever does," Slick said, looking at his watch, "we're going to go over some figures, toss around a couples of "atta boys," and watch a serious video about bomb threats. Then, if you all don't shut up, I'm gonna plant a bomb somewhere so I can get a whole new staff. Maybe I'll get people who are willing to talk about business in a BUSINESS MEETING!"
"Jeez Louise," Mags whispered.
"Is that a threat?" a voice sounded from the back of the room.
"Consider it a promise," Slick said, and the room grew incredibly quiet. "Now I know you all think I just stroll around here for name's sake, and don't give a shit about this place, and Stockwell, if you say anything about my use of profanity, I'll drag my ninety-five-year-old grandfather down here and have him fire your ass."
Stockwell spit Moutain Dew on the table in front of him.
"Excuse me?" he said, and Slick looked at him.
"Just seeing if you're with me," Slick said. "Lay off the sugar, man. You're an important part of this family. I don't want you to wreck your car some night on a dark road, because you're reaching for a fritter."
"Thanks, I think.... You know, I bring a lot more to this store than thousands of calories in the form of high fructose corn syrup," Stockwell said.
"No one's arguing that. I'd just like to see Kitty spending as much time training cashiers as she is keeping notes in the Stockwell food journal."
"That's uncalled for," Kitty said.
"I'm beginning to like meetings. This is like the best one ever," Mags Davidson said.
"Mags, put a sock in it. You could learn to watch where you're going. You've single-handedly increased the cost of our worker's comp insurance by four-hundred percent. Pretty soon I'm going to start docking your paycheck," Slick said.
"Take a chill pill," Mags said, and an audible gasp rose from the crowd.
Now look it, everybody," Slick said. "Let's start over. Let's pretend that Miles is actually here, and let's get down to business. What I was trying to say before the sun hit Stockwell's Mountain Dew and I was distracted by dancing prisms, is that I sincerely care about this store, and the people in it, and not just customers, because a lot of them really try our patience. I care about you, the Tommy family. So much so that I am going to play a larger role in how this Tommy's is run. We're going to look closer at policy, and see what works and what doesn't, and, Kitty, don't look so panic striken, you can still wear all your paraphernalia.
"Thanks, Slick," Kitty whispered.
"Wouldn't be Kitty without it," Mags said, and Kitty smiled.
"Let's break for five, grab some fresh coffee, and hopefully our donuts will be delivered by then, and we'll see what this bomb threat video is about. I'm sorry I said I was going to blow up the store. I was only kidding."
"Thank God," Nichole Deans said. "I just redid the entire kitchen display area. If you blow that up, I'll come back as a ghost and haunt you for all eternity," Nichole warned.
"I'll consider myself warned," Slick said. "Incidentally, Nichole is tearing things up with her design ideas. And, as long as she keeps up the good work, we'll stop measuring the size of her earrings."
"Thanks, Slick," Nichole said, with a satisfied smile.
"All right, let's break," Slick said.
Tommy Tool Towners scattered like cock roaches, leaving only a few choice players behind.
Nichole Deans remained, and stood typing a text message, with lightening speed.
Kitty waved to Nichole, who normally stood in the back of the room, probably because she couldn't sit in her mini-skirts. Kitty and Nichole had become confidants in their passion for creating a better Tommy's, and often hob knobbed over how to keep Stockwell alive. Kitty secretly coveted some of Nichole's earrings, and her design abilities. Kitty lived with her mother and ancient grandmother, and wondered if Nichole could design a sound proof kitchen. Kitty's life would improve immensely if she couldn't hear the two old biddies bickering as they argued over how to stack the dishes in the dish drainer.
"What happened to Mags this time?" Nichole asked, making her way to where the three cashier managers still sat.
"Beaned by some two-by-fours," Barbie said.
"Wasn't it a similar thing last time?" Nichole asked.
"Nope," Barbie said. "Last time it was a toilet to the foot."
"Gotcha," Nichole said. "I've gotta hit the girl's room. "Don't let Stockwell near the donuts."
"We won't," Barbie, Kitty, and Mags said in unison.
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