Harry Jensen ran a tight ship. She knew everything a human could know about appliances, including whether or not the light in the fridge stayed on when the door was closed.
It didn't.
One night, a few months back, exhausted by the ever-present, and massively stupid question, Harry plugged in a side-by-side Frigidaire, grabbed her cell phone, set the video to record, and stuck the damn thing inside the refrigerator. She opened and closed the door approximately fifty times. The result looked like a Lady Gaga video, but she successfully proved what she always believed.
The light went off when the door was closed.
Why wouldn't it?
Were vegetables afraid of the dark?
Harry, born Harriet Jean, something she'd like to have hacked her parents to bits for, and shoved them into a freezer, had a tough exterior. She ran a tight department, and things got done. Sure, she told stories over cocktails, about crazy customers, but didn't everyone?
Harry hadn't had a completely bat shit customer in some time.
That was about to change.
The morning passed without issue. Appliances were dusted, deliveries were arranged, and one customer asked about the light in the fridge. Harry whipped out the video, like she always did, and the customer looked at her like she was David Copperfield.
"I would have thought it stayed on," the man had said.
"Why?" Harry asked.
"Just made sense," the man had replied.
It didn't make sense, but then again, a lot of what happened in retail didn't make much sense at all, and that thought, that very philosophy was about to be proven by a middle-aged woman, with a horrid dye job, and a sense of style that made Ada MacKenzie look like a geriatric fashion model.
Harry spotted the customer from half a store away. It wasn't hard to do. The woman had bleached blond hair that looked like it would fracture if someone touched it. She wore a leopard print scarf, a paisley jacket, and plaid pants. It was the fashion disaster of the century, and Harry forced herself to breathe deeply, and avert her eyes, just enough, as the woman approached.
"I need to have a carpet cleaned!" the woman screamed, and Harry jumped.
"I'm right here, ma'am," Harry replied. "You don't need to yell."
"I'm sorry. I don't see well," the woman said. "You looked further away."
Six hours separated Harry from a two-day break. She had a feeling she was really going to need it after she finished up with this whack job.
"You said something about carpet cleaning?" Harry asked.
"I have a stain," the woman whined.
"A stain? Of what particular kind?" Harry asked.
"The dead kind."
"I beg your pardon, ma'am?" Harry said.
"Someone died on my carpet, and crapped all over."
"Dear God. I'm so sorry," Harry offered with compassion.
"Thank you. It's a lovely rug," the woman replied.
I am standing face to face with a complete sociopath. Harry pondered this for a moment, as the woman toyed with her ugly scarf.
"How can I help you?" Harry asked.
"I need something to remove the stain, and I'd like to clean the sofa too, so I'll need some hand tools, but I can't get Ralph off the sofa, and the old bastard never bathed, so maybe I could get something to clean him too, while he's parked there."
Harry felt herself go pale. "Ma'am, this is a bit beyond the scope of my job, but shouldn't you call someone to remove the body?"
"Oh, Ralph ain't dead. Carolyn was dead. They already came and got her. Just in the knick of time, too. If I had to watch one more rerun of Criminal Minds, I was gonna kill her myself."
"Are these people friends of yours?" Harry asked.
"Distant cousins. I was rather hoping Ralph would kick it, too, but I checked right before I left. He's still breathing."
Five hours and forty-five minutes. I am not going to live through this, Harry surmised.
"Ma'am, I am not sure what you'd like me to do," Harry offered.
"I'd like you to help me pick out a cleaner that would clean up Carolyn's crap, and give Ralph a good scrubbing. If I have to replace that rug and sofa, there's gonna be hell to pay. It's nice stuff. You could probably have guessed that by how I'm dressed."
"That very thought was going through my mind, ma'am," Harry said, wishing she'd been kidnapped and stuffed in the trunk of her car at the Dunkin Donuts drive thru, just before dawn. Anything would have been better than this.
Harry grabbed her phone. "Reeve Stockwell, please come to the appliance department for customer service," Harry paged.
Stockwell didn't come.
He was tied up elsewhere.
Harry Jensen checked her watch again. Five hours and forty minutes remaining. No way she was going to survive.
From a distance, she saw the lanky form of Miles Longworth. Harry was about to do what she did best.
Delegate.
****************
Reeve Stockwell stared into the cardboard box at his feet.
"What the hell?" he whispered.
He scanned the area. He was still alone. Thoughts of another career in a parallel life, a career in which Stockwell was an FBI agent, picked at his mind. Six matching items filled the box. He lifted one free, and held it in his hands.
He had no idea why it was in an unmarked box in Tommy's receiving department, but Stockwell allowed himself a moment, just a moment, to slip through a worm hole, into that other life, that life where he was the man he imagined himself to be.
"Stockwell. Reeve Stockwell," Stockwell whispered, holding the weapon in his hands, and carefully stalking an invisible perpetrator.
Stockwell heard Harry Jensen's page, but he ignored it. He was busy. Somebody else was gonna have to lug a chest freezer. Stockwell had perps to apprehend.
He panned across the receiving bay. A single refrigerator, wrapped in plastic, stood before him.
"Drop your weapon," Stockwell whispered.
The refrigerator remained silent.
"Drop your weapon or I'll shoot," Stockwell said, louder this time. He was still alone, and the forklifts droned on, drowning out any words he might speak.
The plastic on the fridge shifted, and Stockwell jumped a bit. "Do that again, and I WILL shoot you," Stockwell said to the unarmed appliance.
Stockwell's phone chirped, and he lost his grip on the weapon. It hit the floor and fired six, maybe eight times, narrowly missing the special order refrigerator. Stockwell screamed, his voice disappearing into the sound of power equipment being operated two aisles away.
His body slick with sweat, he grabbed the weapon, shoved it back into the box, shoved the box back under the rack where he'd found it, and reached for the package of oreos.
Kitty Richardson found him thirty minutes later, holding the empty package.
"Reeve?" Kitty said, kneeling beside her boss. "You all right?"
"Go away, Kitty," Stockwell slurred.
"What's wrong? What happened? What did you take?"
"These," Stockwell said, holding the empty oreo packaging, which shook and rattled in his right hand.
"How many?"
"All of them," Stockwell admitted.
"Why? What happened?"
"You wouldn't believe it if I told you," Stockwell said.
"I might."
Stockwell took a deep breath, and prepared to tell Kitty everything.
Friday, May 25, 2012
Friday, May 11, 2012
Tommy's Tool Town - Chapter 20 - Stockwell's Discovery
Reeve Stockwell looked like a powdered donut. He had brushed as much of the cement from his clothes as possible, but he was still well coated.
Ada MacKenzie stood at the customer service desk, silver hair sticking out at every odd angle, with her leopard boots in her hand.
"Ms. MacKenzie, where is your granddaughter?" Stockwell asked.
"Kitty quit," Quincy said. "Just walked out. I gotta tell you, it doesn't really surprise me. She's probably out there in the parking lot, shooting our customers. If anyone in this building was gonna go totally postal, I think it would be Kitty. I mean, come on, carrying on endlessly over the loss of a pen. Was that woman dropped on her head as a baby?"
"Quincy, we appreciate your brilliant psychological assessment of our Kitty. While I agree her mental state troubles me, this may not be the time," Stockwell said, pointing at Ada, who stood gawking at Quincy with her mouth open.
"I am so sorry, Ma'am," Quincy said, rising from her post at the operator's desk, and sidling up to Ada, who was still staring at her.
"Is your hair periwinkle, dear?" Ada asked.
That's all she got out of this? Stockwell thought.
"It's turqoise," Quincy said, and Ada clapped enthusiastically.
"How do you think that would look on me?" Ada asked. "I was considering some pink, but that blue is just lovely."
"Thanks. My girl Nadine does a heck of a job, and you can smoke in her shop. You're not supposed to, and I imagine your hair could go up like Michael Jackson's, but we're super careful," Quincy rattled on, and Stockwell began looking for something with which he might kill himself.
"I'm off the Lucky Strikes," Ada said. "Golly jeepers, do I miss 'em. Nothing like a Lucky Strike after a few hours with a handsome fella," Ada said, and Stockwell made a sign of the cross.
Lord give me strength, Stockwell prayed.
"Would someone go get Kitty?" Stockwell demanded.
"If I can take the cart," Ada offered.
"NO!" several voices said in unison.
"I'll go!" Stockwell roared. "Please keep Ms. MacKenzie here, Quincy," Stockwell said.
He stormed away, toward the double doors that wooshed open when he approached. The wind outside kicked up, and Stockwell left a cloud in his wake, like the beloved character, Pig Pen, from the Peanuts family.
"Kitty!" Stockwell yelled.
He found Kitty sitting on the picnic table. She seemed to be in deep conversation with the pen she held in her hand.
"What are you doing?" Stockwell asked. He was tempted to sit, but didn't want to leave a pile of cement dust behind.
"I am just trying to sort it all out," Kitty said, without looking up.
"By talking with Melvin?"
"Yes."
"Kitty, why do you talk to Melvin?"
"He's a good listener," Kitty explained.
"Do you realize it makes you seem totally bat shit?" Stockwell asked gently.
"I do, but have you met the woman on the cart? I was born bat shit," Kitty said.
"Touche," Stockwell said, finally taking a seat beside her. "What am I going to do with you, Kitty?"
"You could recommend me for Witness Protection," Kitty said.
"I don't think you qualify for Witness Protection," Stockwell said.
"You can't imagine the things I've seen," Kitty said.
Stockwell could, and he hoped she didn't go into detail. He couldn't imagine living with Ada, or with Helen, who was lost someplace in the confines of Tommy's lamp shade department. He wanted to help Kitty, but he had no idea how.
"Come back inside," Stockwell suggested.
"To do what?" Kitty asked.
"You could work."
"And why would I want to do that?" Kitty asked.
Kitty was back. He could see the gleam in her eye.
"On one condition," Kitty said.
"What's that?" Stockwell asked.
"You ban my mother and grandmother from Tommy's forever, like until the apocalypse."
"I can't do that," Stockwell said.
"You could put them on the Partners in Paint list."
"I can't do that," Stockwell repeated.
"I had to ask."
"I understand," Stockwell said.
He stood, and brushed the cement dust from the picnic table's bench. Kitty rose, too. The two approached Tommy's doors. Stockwell was still shedding a dusty cloud, and Kitty whispered to Melvin.
Ada and Quincy were sharing a Marlboro, at the enormous Tommy ash tray, outside the front door.
"You're not supposed to smoke, Gran!" Kitty reprimanded.
"I was desperate," Ada whined. "It's giving me quite a buzz."
"She's terrific," Quincy said.
"You want her?" Kitty mumbled.
"Put that out, Quincy. You can't be smoking here. You know the rules," Stockwell said.
Quincy sulked. "I was simply servicing our customers in the way they required. She was just desperate for a puff."
"That's fine, but please just put the cigarette out."
Quincy did. Ada pouted. "I wanted just one more drag," she whined.
"Where is my mother?" Kitty asked. "You guys need to go home," she very nearly begged.
"She's bringing the car around," Ada said.
"Thank you, Lord!" Kitty whispered.
Kitty and Quincy helped load Ada into the behemoth Buick. Quincy waved enthusiastically, and went inside. Kitty watched until the car disappeared from site. She whispered to Melvin.
"One of these days, I am going to smother them in their sleep."
Melvin remained silent.
****************
Reeve Stockwell stormed toward the Shop Vac display. He found the associate he sought. Chewie, whose real name was known only to Human Resources, was sitting at the desk fiddling with an Ipad.
"Chewie, I could use your help," Stockwell said.
"In what way, boss?" Chewie said, setting the device aside.
"I'd like you to Shop Vac this mess off my clothes," Stockwell requested.
"Seriously?" Chewie asked.
"Yes. Could we take the floor model back to Receiving?"
"Don't see why not," Chewie said, trying not to laugh.
"Dude, can I get some help over here?"
Both men turned to see a young customer, who'd obviously arrived at Tommy's by way of some time machine. He was a sixties throw back, if ever there was one, and the young man (at least the voice sounded male) looked like Cousin It from the Adam's Family.
"You in there somewhere, sir?" Chewie asked, and Stockwell groaned.
"Be kind," Stockwell whispered.
"In what way may I be of assistance?" Chewie asked.
"Dude, what happened to you? Somebody get designs on turning you into a pastry?" the customer asked Stockwell.
"Cement dust," Stockwell said. "Is there something we could help you with?"
"I'm looking for a particular kind of light bulb," the customer said.
"I can help you," Chewie offered. "What's it for?"
"My plants," the customer said, and Chewie smiled.
"What kind of plants?" Chewie asked.
"For my weed, man," the customer explained.
"Seriously?" Stockwell asked.
"It's just for me. Helps me relax, dude," the customer explained.
Stockwell was a tad bit worried. If the "dude" relaxed any more, he was afraid the guy might die right there in front of them.
"That's illegal," Stockwell said.
"Shouldn't be," the customer said. "People think weed is so dangerous. We're not endangering anyone. We're all at home on the couch, eating Cheese Jax and playing video games. Where's the danger in that?"
"You make a good argument," Stockwell said.
"No kidding," Chewie agreed. "Sir, I don't mean to alarm you, but there's a cop over there."
"You think he might know anything about light bulbs?" the customer asked.
"I really couldn't say," Chewie replied.
"Perhaps I'll go ask him," the customer said. "Thanks, gentlemen. Peace be with you."
"Lord give me strength," Stockwell said.
"Man, you couldn't make this shit up," Chewie said. "I'm gonna keep an eye on him, and see if the cop needs any help. Give me a few minutes and I'll meet you out back."
"Sounds good," Stockwell said. "I could use a few minutes to try to clear my head."
Stockwell made his way to the Receiving Bay. Sonny was at lunch, the stock folks were gone for the day, and the entire area was quiet. It was Reeve Stockwell's favorite place in Tommy's. If he hit it at just the right moment, he could enjoy the silence and perhaps grab something from his secret stash. The tool box was exactly where he'd left it, and Stockwell slipped the little silver key from his key chain, into the box's lock, and opened the treasure chest. The full package of Oreo cookies stared up at him.
"Who's your daddy?" Stockwell said to the cookies, knowing it made him about as crazy as Kitty. At the moment, he just didn't care. He just needed one, or two, or however many it took to quiet the chaos in his head. His entire staff was nuts. He just wanted to do his job. He wanted to sell tools, and light bulbs to crazy men with bad hair, and manage the areas of the store under his supervision.
He didn't want his staff bringing their crazy relatives in to tear the place up.
He didn't want to deal with a loony toon who talked to a pen.
He didn't want to step in bird shit every time he went to talk to Nichole Deans about her kitchen sales.
He didn't want to lock up his old car every day, and walk past Slick's Mercedes.
He just wanted things to be normal, if only for a day.
He popped the first cookie into his mouth, and felt the grainy chocolate between his teeth. He knew he shouldn't eat it. He knew. His wife told him, his doctor told him, and Kitty told him all the time, but she talked to a pen! You couldn't put any weight on something suggested by a woman who confided in a pen!
Stockwell ate a second.
A third.
Half of a fourth. He ate the fourth cookie like he had as a boy, opening up the two halves, and licking the creamy center. The bottom of the cookie slid from his fingers and rolled across the floor.
"Shit!" Stockwell whispered.
He couldn't leave it. It would draw every critter known to man.
Already filthy, Stockwell crawled on his belly, beneath the lowest rack in the bay, and searched for the cookie.
His fingers brushed a box, a box where there shouldn't be a box. He grabbed it with both hands and shimmied out from beneath the racks.
"What the hell is this?" Stockwell said.
The box was nondescript, and void of anything that might identify it. Across the top was written: 4 of 127. DO NOT DROP!
"What the hell?" Stockwell repeated.
He opened the box. He couldn't believe what he found inside. He knew he wasn't supposed to have found it.
Who did it belong to?
Why was it in Tommy's Receiving Bay?
Suddenly, Kitty's suggestion of Witness Protection sounded like a pretty good idea.
Ada MacKenzie stood at the customer service desk, silver hair sticking out at every odd angle, with her leopard boots in her hand.
"Ms. MacKenzie, where is your granddaughter?" Stockwell asked.
"Kitty quit," Quincy said. "Just walked out. I gotta tell you, it doesn't really surprise me. She's probably out there in the parking lot, shooting our customers. If anyone in this building was gonna go totally postal, I think it would be Kitty. I mean, come on, carrying on endlessly over the loss of a pen. Was that woman dropped on her head as a baby?"
"Quincy, we appreciate your brilliant psychological assessment of our Kitty. While I agree her mental state troubles me, this may not be the time," Stockwell said, pointing at Ada, who stood gawking at Quincy with her mouth open.
"I am so sorry, Ma'am," Quincy said, rising from her post at the operator's desk, and sidling up to Ada, who was still staring at her.
"Is your hair periwinkle, dear?" Ada asked.
That's all she got out of this? Stockwell thought.
"It's turqoise," Quincy said, and Ada clapped enthusiastically.
"How do you think that would look on me?" Ada asked. "I was considering some pink, but that blue is just lovely."
"Thanks. My girl Nadine does a heck of a job, and you can smoke in her shop. You're not supposed to, and I imagine your hair could go up like Michael Jackson's, but we're super careful," Quincy rattled on, and Stockwell began looking for something with which he might kill himself.
"I'm off the Lucky Strikes," Ada said. "Golly jeepers, do I miss 'em. Nothing like a Lucky Strike after a few hours with a handsome fella," Ada said, and Stockwell made a sign of the cross.
Lord give me strength, Stockwell prayed.
"Would someone go get Kitty?" Stockwell demanded.
"If I can take the cart," Ada offered.
"NO!" several voices said in unison.
"I'll go!" Stockwell roared. "Please keep Ms. MacKenzie here, Quincy," Stockwell said.
He stormed away, toward the double doors that wooshed open when he approached. The wind outside kicked up, and Stockwell left a cloud in his wake, like the beloved character, Pig Pen, from the Peanuts family.
"Kitty!" Stockwell yelled.
He found Kitty sitting on the picnic table. She seemed to be in deep conversation with the pen she held in her hand.
"What are you doing?" Stockwell asked. He was tempted to sit, but didn't want to leave a pile of cement dust behind.
"I am just trying to sort it all out," Kitty said, without looking up.
"By talking with Melvin?"
"Yes."
"Kitty, why do you talk to Melvin?"
"He's a good listener," Kitty explained.
"Do you realize it makes you seem totally bat shit?" Stockwell asked gently.
"I do, but have you met the woman on the cart? I was born bat shit," Kitty said.
"Touche," Stockwell said, finally taking a seat beside her. "What am I going to do with you, Kitty?"
"You could recommend me for Witness Protection," Kitty said.
"I don't think you qualify for Witness Protection," Stockwell said.
"You can't imagine the things I've seen," Kitty said.
Stockwell could, and he hoped she didn't go into detail. He couldn't imagine living with Ada, or with Helen, who was lost someplace in the confines of Tommy's lamp shade department. He wanted to help Kitty, but he had no idea how.
"Come back inside," Stockwell suggested.
"To do what?" Kitty asked.
"You could work."
"And why would I want to do that?" Kitty asked.
Kitty was back. He could see the gleam in her eye.
"On one condition," Kitty said.
"What's that?" Stockwell asked.
"You ban my mother and grandmother from Tommy's forever, like until the apocalypse."
"I can't do that," Stockwell said.
"You could put them on the Partners in Paint list."
"I can't do that," Stockwell repeated.
"I had to ask."
"I understand," Stockwell said.
He stood, and brushed the cement dust from the picnic table's bench. Kitty rose, too. The two approached Tommy's doors. Stockwell was still shedding a dusty cloud, and Kitty whispered to Melvin.
Ada and Quincy were sharing a Marlboro, at the enormous Tommy ash tray, outside the front door.
"You're not supposed to smoke, Gran!" Kitty reprimanded.
"I was desperate," Ada whined. "It's giving me quite a buzz."
"She's terrific," Quincy said.
"You want her?" Kitty mumbled.
"Put that out, Quincy. You can't be smoking here. You know the rules," Stockwell said.
Quincy sulked. "I was simply servicing our customers in the way they required. She was just desperate for a puff."
"That's fine, but please just put the cigarette out."
Quincy did. Ada pouted. "I wanted just one more drag," she whined.
"Where is my mother?" Kitty asked. "You guys need to go home," she very nearly begged.
"She's bringing the car around," Ada said.
"Thank you, Lord!" Kitty whispered.
Kitty and Quincy helped load Ada into the behemoth Buick. Quincy waved enthusiastically, and went inside. Kitty watched until the car disappeared from site. She whispered to Melvin.
"One of these days, I am going to smother them in their sleep."
Melvin remained silent.
****************
Reeve Stockwell stormed toward the Shop Vac display. He found the associate he sought. Chewie, whose real name was known only to Human Resources, was sitting at the desk fiddling with an Ipad.
"Chewie, I could use your help," Stockwell said.
"In what way, boss?" Chewie said, setting the device aside.
"I'd like you to Shop Vac this mess off my clothes," Stockwell requested.
"Seriously?" Chewie asked.
"Yes. Could we take the floor model back to Receiving?"
"Don't see why not," Chewie said, trying not to laugh.
"Dude, can I get some help over here?"
Both men turned to see a young customer, who'd obviously arrived at Tommy's by way of some time machine. He was a sixties throw back, if ever there was one, and the young man (at least the voice sounded male) looked like Cousin It from the Adam's Family.
"You in there somewhere, sir?" Chewie asked, and Stockwell groaned.
"Be kind," Stockwell whispered.
"In what way may I be of assistance?" Chewie asked.
"Dude, what happened to you? Somebody get designs on turning you into a pastry?" the customer asked Stockwell.
"Cement dust," Stockwell said. "Is there something we could help you with?"
"I'm looking for a particular kind of light bulb," the customer said.
"I can help you," Chewie offered. "What's it for?"
"My plants," the customer said, and Chewie smiled.
"What kind of plants?" Chewie asked.
"For my weed, man," the customer explained.
"Seriously?" Stockwell asked.
"It's just for me. Helps me relax, dude," the customer explained.
Stockwell was a tad bit worried. If the "dude" relaxed any more, he was afraid the guy might die right there in front of them.
"That's illegal," Stockwell said.
"Shouldn't be," the customer said. "People think weed is so dangerous. We're not endangering anyone. We're all at home on the couch, eating Cheese Jax and playing video games. Where's the danger in that?"
"You make a good argument," Stockwell said.
"No kidding," Chewie agreed. "Sir, I don't mean to alarm you, but there's a cop over there."
"You think he might know anything about light bulbs?" the customer asked.
"I really couldn't say," Chewie replied.
"Perhaps I'll go ask him," the customer said. "Thanks, gentlemen. Peace be with you."
"Lord give me strength," Stockwell said.
"Man, you couldn't make this shit up," Chewie said. "I'm gonna keep an eye on him, and see if the cop needs any help. Give me a few minutes and I'll meet you out back."
"Sounds good," Stockwell said. "I could use a few minutes to try to clear my head."
Stockwell made his way to the Receiving Bay. Sonny was at lunch, the stock folks were gone for the day, and the entire area was quiet. It was Reeve Stockwell's favorite place in Tommy's. If he hit it at just the right moment, he could enjoy the silence and perhaps grab something from his secret stash. The tool box was exactly where he'd left it, and Stockwell slipped the little silver key from his key chain, into the box's lock, and opened the treasure chest. The full package of Oreo cookies stared up at him.
"Who's your daddy?" Stockwell said to the cookies, knowing it made him about as crazy as Kitty. At the moment, he just didn't care. He just needed one, or two, or however many it took to quiet the chaos in his head. His entire staff was nuts. He just wanted to do his job. He wanted to sell tools, and light bulbs to crazy men with bad hair, and manage the areas of the store under his supervision.
He didn't want his staff bringing their crazy relatives in to tear the place up.
He didn't want to deal with a loony toon who talked to a pen.
He didn't want to step in bird shit every time he went to talk to Nichole Deans about her kitchen sales.
He didn't want to lock up his old car every day, and walk past Slick's Mercedes.
He just wanted things to be normal, if only for a day.
He popped the first cookie into his mouth, and felt the grainy chocolate between his teeth. He knew he shouldn't eat it. He knew. His wife told him, his doctor told him, and Kitty told him all the time, but she talked to a pen! You couldn't put any weight on something suggested by a woman who confided in a pen!
Stockwell ate a second.
A third.
Half of a fourth. He ate the fourth cookie like he had as a boy, opening up the two halves, and licking the creamy center. The bottom of the cookie slid from his fingers and rolled across the floor.
"Shit!" Stockwell whispered.
He couldn't leave it. It would draw every critter known to man.
Already filthy, Stockwell crawled on his belly, beneath the lowest rack in the bay, and searched for the cookie.
His fingers brushed a box, a box where there shouldn't be a box. He grabbed it with both hands and shimmied out from beneath the racks.
"What the hell is this?" Stockwell said.
The box was nondescript, and void of anything that might identify it. Across the top was written: 4 of 127. DO NOT DROP!
"What the hell?" Stockwell repeated.
He opened the box. He couldn't believe what he found inside. He knew he wasn't supposed to have found it.
Who did it belong to?
Why was it in Tommy's Receiving Bay?
Suddenly, Kitty's suggestion of Witness Protection sounded like a pretty good idea.
Wednesday, May 2, 2012
Tommy's Tool Town- Chapter 19 - The Flying Bandit
Slick Mitchell sat in his office, staring at the wall. He could hear Miles Longworth banging around in the office next door. Slick had no idea where Reeve Stockwell was, and he suddenly felt like his entire operation was going to the dogs. Sonny Brooks was skulking about like he was afraid of his own shadow. Miles was acting like he was losing his mind. Stockwell was so amped up on sugar, he shook like a recovering addict. Kitty Richardson was dressed in mourning black, blubbering over the loss of a pen. Mags Davidson was on a forced vacation, equivalent to retail Witness Protection, just to keep the poor woman out of harm's way. Barbie Baxter was due in at noon, and would be strutting about in a yellow hard hat, like Bob the Builder. The cashiers were raising holy hell because of the lack of supervision, the turkey vulture was crapping everywhere, and Partners in Paint had left seventeen angry messages about getting their stupid Slim Spin 5000 back, regardless of its present condition.
"I am completely screwed," Slick said to the empty room.
To top it off, someone was messing around in the Receiving Bay, and altering the security tapes to hide their activity.
Slick grabbed a scrap paper from the corner of his desk and scratched one sentence with an old blue Bic.
Dear Grandpa, I quit.
"If only I could," Slick said out loud.
Slick folded the paper up and shoved it into his pocket. It was a sentiment for another day. At the moment, Slick had a job to do. He had to figure out how to get his business back on track, get to the bottom of the security tape issue, and keep his people out of the nut house.
****************
Penelope Ross and Bernice Lord were parked at registers twelve and thirteen respectively. Kitty Richardson was stationed at the front door.
Bernice shot her with a rubber band, and Kitty barely blinked.
"Is she dead?" Bernice whispered.
"Wouldn't she fall over?" Penelope asked.
"You would think," Bernice replied. "Kitty? You with us?" Bernice yelled.
No response.
"That is quite enough," Quincy yelled from the operator's desk. "I'm putting every line on hold and going on a scavenger hunt for that pen. This is absolutely ridiculous!"
Jack Goldman, Tommy's single loader, huffed and puffed behind a disabled motorized cart.
"What happened, Jack?" Bernice asked.
"Damn thing died again. I just fixed it last week," Jack complained.
Bernice shot Penelope a look, and Penelope nodded, and shut her light off at register twelve. "Jack, it's deader than heck in here. Bernice and I are taking a class in auto mechanics. Can we have a look at it? Maybe we can fix it," Penelope offered, batting her eyelashes.
"Look it. If you can push it back to the Maintenance Shop, you can do anything you want to it," Jack said. "I've had it with these darn things. They're nothing but junk."
"Kitty? Can we take this back to the shop and see if we can fix it?" Penelope asked.
Kitty stood stiller than a cadaver.
"She said yes. I heard her," Bernice said.
"I didn't hear a thing," Jack said, before walking away.
"I rather like her like this," Penelope commented, climbing aboard the disabled cart. "Can you push me, Bernice?"
"I guess so," Bernice whined.
The two passed by the paint desk, at a dangerous speed of about two miles an hour. Quincy crawled around on the floor along aisle six.
"I FOUND IT! I FOUND MELVIN!" Quincy yelled, and Kitty came to life as if she'd been hit by a defribilator.
"Melvin," Kitty wailed, grabbing the pen from Quincy's outstretched hand. "Oh, Quincy. Thank you, thank you, thank you! Melvin, my darling, I have missed you," Kitty said, hugging the pen to her chest.
"She is absolutely friggin' nuts," Quincy said to Valentine Jones, who nodded in total agreement.
"Where did Bernice and Penelope go?" Kitty asked, and Quincy shrugged.
"What were you, in a trance?" Quincy asked.
"I was meditating," Kitty said.
"Oh," Quincy replied. "Well, your girls are in the shop trying to fix a disabled cart. Actually-" Quincy said, peering down aisle six. "They're not quite there yet."
"Great," Kitty griped. "Barbie will be here in ten minutes. I guess I'll run register for a while. I'll let them tinker with it for a bit. Someone's gotta fix those carts, or we're going to have to get some pack mules for our aging customers to ride."
"Stockwell would love that," Quincy remarked.
Barbie Baxter arrived prompty at noon, donned her hard hat, and took position at the front door. Bernice and Penelope were back by two. They were both flushed from the exertion of pushing the cart back.
"Did you fix it?" Kitty asked.
Bernice laughed.
"What's funny?" Barbie asked.
"Nothing," Bernice said.
"Girls, what did you do?" Kitty asked.
"We couldn't do a thing with it," Penelope said, and Kitty sighed.
"Great. I'll get on those mules," Kitty said.
"Mules?" Penelope inquired.
"Don't ask," Barbie said.
At three o'clock, the doors whooshed open, and Kitty went pale. "Dear God," Kitty whispered.
"What's wrong?" Barbie asked.
"It's my mother and my grandmother," Kitty said, trying to hide behind register thirteen.
"What are they doing here?" Barbie asked.
"I have absolutely no idea," Kitty said.
"Stella!!!" Ada yelled, and Kitty stood up. Ada was at Customer Service. She was dressed in Gloria Vanderbilt jeans, a black leather jacket, and thigh-high leopard print boots. She wore a blond wig, that hung to her waist. Kitty nearly fainted.
"Gran? Did you join a gang?" Kitty asked, and Barbie laughed.
"I found an old Def Leppard CD. I was just getting into the mood," Ada said, and Kitty groaned.
"But, what are you doing here?" Kitty asked.
"I was doing some head banging, and I knocked the lamp over. Helen dragged me down here to buy a new lamp shade," Ada explained.
"I could have gotten it," Kitty said.
"Helen says you have bad taste," Ada commented.
Kitty held her tongue.
"My feet hurt like hell," Ada whined. "You got one of those carts?"
"It isn't working," Kitty.
"It's plugged in," Ada said, toddling over to the disabled cart. "The light's on. I'm gonna give it a try," Ada said, climbing aboard.
"Bernice!" Penelope yelled. "Kitty's grandmother is riding the cart!"
"Run, Penelope!" Bernice hollered back.
"I thought you said it didn't work," Kitty said.
"We lied," Bernice said, as Penelope sprinted away.
"What did you do?" Kitty asked, sounding panicked.
"We just tweaked it a little," Bernice whispered.
"To do what?" Kitty asked.
"Go faster," Bernice mouthed.
"What?" Kitty said.
"We made it faster," Bernice admitted.
"Holy shit. That is my ninety-nine year old grandmother on that thing," Kitty shrieked. "How fast will it go?"
"We didn't test it yet," Bernice admitted.
"Oh dear, God. You're going to kill her!" Kitty yelled.
Kitty couldn't see the cart, but she could hear it. It sounded like an airplane taking off. Suddenly Ada rounded the corner. She flew by, squealing like a teenager, blond wig flying in the wind. Penelope was hot on her heels, but couldn't catch her.
"This is fabulous!" Ada screamed.
Reeve Stockwell stepped from aisle six, and dove for cover to avoid being killed by the Flying Bandit. "What the hell was that?" Reeve moaned. A pallet of concrete bags had cushioned his fall, and he arose looking like he'd been rolled in flour.
"It's Kitty's grandmother!" Penelope yelled, as she ran by.
"Dear God, someone just kill me," Stockwell roared, as he ran in the direction of the cart. He'd only made it about ten feet when Ada swung a u-turn and headed back toward Customer Service. Stockwell spun on his heel, and tried to outrun the speeding granny.
"I am going to kill every single one of you!" Stockwell screamed, as he sprinted past the line of registers.
Ada finally ran out of juice, and the cart pooped out in front of the tool department. Ada toddled toward her granddaughter. She'd lost her wig in aisle fifteen, and her silver hair stuck out as if she'd been electrocuted.
"I love this store. That was the time of my life," Ada said. "I am coming back tomorrow. Have my cart ready!"
"I quit," Kitty said. "Let's go home, Melvin."
"I am completely screwed," Slick said to the empty room.
To top it off, someone was messing around in the Receiving Bay, and altering the security tapes to hide their activity.
Slick grabbed a scrap paper from the corner of his desk and scratched one sentence with an old blue Bic.
Dear Grandpa, I quit.
"If only I could," Slick said out loud.
Slick folded the paper up and shoved it into his pocket. It was a sentiment for another day. At the moment, Slick had a job to do. He had to figure out how to get his business back on track, get to the bottom of the security tape issue, and keep his people out of the nut house.
****************
Penelope Ross and Bernice Lord were parked at registers twelve and thirteen respectively. Kitty Richardson was stationed at the front door.
Bernice shot her with a rubber band, and Kitty barely blinked.
"Is she dead?" Bernice whispered.
"Wouldn't she fall over?" Penelope asked.
"You would think," Bernice replied. "Kitty? You with us?" Bernice yelled.
No response.
"That is quite enough," Quincy yelled from the operator's desk. "I'm putting every line on hold and going on a scavenger hunt for that pen. This is absolutely ridiculous!"
Jack Goldman, Tommy's single loader, huffed and puffed behind a disabled motorized cart.
"What happened, Jack?" Bernice asked.
"Damn thing died again. I just fixed it last week," Jack complained.
Bernice shot Penelope a look, and Penelope nodded, and shut her light off at register twelve. "Jack, it's deader than heck in here. Bernice and I are taking a class in auto mechanics. Can we have a look at it? Maybe we can fix it," Penelope offered, batting her eyelashes.
"Look it. If you can push it back to the Maintenance Shop, you can do anything you want to it," Jack said. "I've had it with these darn things. They're nothing but junk."
"Kitty? Can we take this back to the shop and see if we can fix it?" Penelope asked.
Kitty stood stiller than a cadaver.
"She said yes. I heard her," Bernice said.
"I didn't hear a thing," Jack said, before walking away.
"I rather like her like this," Penelope commented, climbing aboard the disabled cart. "Can you push me, Bernice?"
"I guess so," Bernice whined.
The two passed by the paint desk, at a dangerous speed of about two miles an hour. Quincy crawled around on the floor along aisle six.
"I FOUND IT! I FOUND MELVIN!" Quincy yelled, and Kitty came to life as if she'd been hit by a defribilator.
"Melvin," Kitty wailed, grabbing the pen from Quincy's outstretched hand. "Oh, Quincy. Thank you, thank you, thank you! Melvin, my darling, I have missed you," Kitty said, hugging the pen to her chest.
"She is absolutely friggin' nuts," Quincy said to Valentine Jones, who nodded in total agreement.
"Where did Bernice and Penelope go?" Kitty asked, and Quincy shrugged.
"What were you, in a trance?" Quincy asked.
"I was meditating," Kitty said.
"Oh," Quincy replied. "Well, your girls are in the shop trying to fix a disabled cart. Actually-" Quincy said, peering down aisle six. "They're not quite there yet."
"Great," Kitty griped. "Barbie will be here in ten minutes. I guess I'll run register for a while. I'll let them tinker with it for a bit. Someone's gotta fix those carts, or we're going to have to get some pack mules for our aging customers to ride."
"Stockwell would love that," Quincy remarked.
Barbie Baxter arrived prompty at noon, donned her hard hat, and took position at the front door. Bernice and Penelope were back by two. They were both flushed from the exertion of pushing the cart back.
"Did you fix it?" Kitty asked.
Bernice laughed.
"What's funny?" Barbie asked.
"Nothing," Bernice said.
"Girls, what did you do?" Kitty asked.
"We couldn't do a thing with it," Penelope said, and Kitty sighed.
"Great. I'll get on those mules," Kitty said.
"Mules?" Penelope inquired.
"Don't ask," Barbie said.
At three o'clock, the doors whooshed open, and Kitty went pale. "Dear God," Kitty whispered.
"What's wrong?" Barbie asked.
"It's my mother and my grandmother," Kitty said, trying to hide behind register thirteen.
"What are they doing here?" Barbie asked.
"I have absolutely no idea," Kitty said.
"Stella!!!" Ada yelled, and Kitty stood up. Ada was at Customer Service. She was dressed in Gloria Vanderbilt jeans, a black leather jacket, and thigh-high leopard print boots. She wore a blond wig, that hung to her waist. Kitty nearly fainted.
"Gran? Did you join a gang?" Kitty asked, and Barbie laughed.
"I found an old Def Leppard CD. I was just getting into the mood," Ada said, and Kitty groaned.
"But, what are you doing here?" Kitty asked.
"I was doing some head banging, and I knocked the lamp over. Helen dragged me down here to buy a new lamp shade," Ada explained.
"I could have gotten it," Kitty said.
"Helen says you have bad taste," Ada commented.
Kitty held her tongue.
"My feet hurt like hell," Ada whined. "You got one of those carts?"
"It isn't working," Kitty.
"It's plugged in," Ada said, toddling over to the disabled cart. "The light's on. I'm gonna give it a try," Ada said, climbing aboard.
"Bernice!" Penelope yelled. "Kitty's grandmother is riding the cart!"
"Run, Penelope!" Bernice hollered back.
"I thought you said it didn't work," Kitty said.
"We lied," Bernice said, as Penelope sprinted away.
"What did you do?" Kitty asked, sounding panicked.
"We just tweaked it a little," Bernice whispered.
"To do what?" Kitty asked.
"Go faster," Bernice mouthed.
"What?" Kitty said.
"We made it faster," Bernice admitted.
"Holy shit. That is my ninety-nine year old grandmother on that thing," Kitty shrieked. "How fast will it go?"
"We didn't test it yet," Bernice admitted.
"Oh dear, God. You're going to kill her!" Kitty yelled.
Kitty couldn't see the cart, but she could hear it. It sounded like an airplane taking off. Suddenly Ada rounded the corner. She flew by, squealing like a teenager, blond wig flying in the wind. Penelope was hot on her heels, but couldn't catch her.
"This is fabulous!" Ada screamed.
Reeve Stockwell stepped from aisle six, and dove for cover to avoid being killed by the Flying Bandit. "What the hell was that?" Reeve moaned. A pallet of concrete bags had cushioned his fall, and he arose looking like he'd been rolled in flour.
"It's Kitty's grandmother!" Penelope yelled, as she ran by.
"Dear God, someone just kill me," Stockwell roared, as he ran in the direction of the cart. He'd only made it about ten feet when Ada swung a u-turn and headed back toward Customer Service. Stockwell spun on his heel, and tried to outrun the speeding granny.
"I am going to kill every single one of you!" Stockwell screamed, as he sprinted past the line of registers.
Ada finally ran out of juice, and the cart pooped out in front of the tool department. Ada toddled toward her granddaughter. She'd lost her wig in aisle fifteen, and her silver hair stuck out as if she'd been electrocuted.
"I love this store. That was the time of my life," Ada said. "I am coming back tomorrow. Have my cart ready!"
"I quit," Kitty said. "Let's go home, Melvin."
Wednesday, April 25, 2012
Tommy's Tool Town - Chapter 18 - Hickory Dickory Dock - What's up With Sonny's Clock.
One day later, Tommy's Tool Town looked better than ever, with some minor exceptions. The paint had virtually vanished. The professional cleaning crew had performed magic over five aisles, while the Tommy crew slept off their Coors Light.
Willie Dennison had supervised the entire cleaning event, and slept in his station wagon, surrounded by Pabst Blue Ribbon cans. Willie was a madman with a broom, who occasionally smelled like a brewery. No one coveted Willie's job, and therefore forgave him for his indiscretions.
Slick Mitchell was the first one in the door. He deposited his briefcase in his office, and walked the perimiter with a flashlight. If the lights had been on, which they weren't, or if the flashlight had been properly directed, which it wasn't, Slick Mitchell might not have stepped in a puddle of bird goo in aisle nine. But he did. He tracked it through aisles ten and eleven. Thankfully, Willie Dennison was due back in at noon.
The pterodactyl had been properly identified by animal control as a Turkey Vulture. Turkey Vultures were on the protected list, which meant that Tommy's couldn't take any unnecessary measures to rid themselves of the creature, such as having Reeve Stockwell shoot it with a staple gun. They'd have to live with it, until the bird could be trapped. If not for the bird goo, and occasional screeching, it wouldn't have been that much of a hardship.
Tommy's opened at 6:00 AM, per usual. Kitty Richardson was first in. She was dressed in black.
"Morning, Kitty," Slick said, and Kitty gave him little more than a passing glance.
"What's up with her?" Slick asked Quincy Warner. Quincy looked half asleep, probably because she normally worked nights, and had still been at Bitsy's at 2:00 AM.
"Kitty's still mourning that damn pen. If I find it, I'm going to stab her with it," Quincy whined.
"I'd prefer you didn't. Besides, if you find the pen, she'll probably snap out of it," Slick said.
"Good point. My brain's a little pickled this morning," Quincy admitted.
Amber Martin strolled in five minutes late. "You should get a new watch," Slick Mitchell said.
"You know, I never understood why people get gold watches when they retire. Maybe if they got them when they were hired, they'd be on time," Amber remarked.
"I'll take that under advisement, Amber," Slick Mitchell said.
Valentine Jones stood at Customer Service. She looked at the schedule and frowned.
"You all right, Val?" Slick Mitchell asked. He was beginning to understand why Stockwell had a sugar problem. One needed a vice when managing the front end.
"Why isn't Mags here? We were supposed to go to the Chinese buffet for lunch today."
"That buffet is skanks town," Quincy commented. "I was in there a couple weeks back, and this squirrel runs out of the kitchen. True story. The cook comes running out with a net. I asked him what he was doing, and he said, 'don't worry. Squirrel not dinner. Squirrel pet.' I ain't never goin' back there."
Slick Mitchell walked away. He had successfully dodged the question about Mags Davidson. Mags was on vacation for a week. Slick had gotten a message last night while half in the bag at Bitsy's. If Tommy's had another injury before the renewal of their comp insurance in six days, the company had threatened to cancel their policy. Slick Mitchell couldn't take any chances. Barbie Baxter agreed to take on an extra shift to cover for Mags, but only if she could wear a hard hat, just until the bird was captured.
Slick strolled through the paint department. The transformation was remarkable. JT Bueller had come in early to remove the charred remains of the Slim Spin 5000, and replace it with Tommy's aging train wreck of a paint mixer. The remains were headed for the dumpster. Partners in Paint had been banned from the store for life. JT was just returning from the dumping when Slick passed by the paint desk.
"Miles Longworth is out back farting around with the dumpster again. That guy's got a serious screw loose," JT commented. "Don't mean to be disrespectful, but is he a hoarder? Does he dumpster dive or something?"
Slick wasn't sure, but he decided it was time to find out.
****************
Miles Longworth stood by the dumpster outside Tommy's receiving bay. He wore his wife's rubber gloves, and held the envelope of money in his hand. He had to get rid of the damn thing. There wasn't any place he could hide it. He couldn't hide it in his office, or anywhere in the store, and he certainly couldn't hide it at home. His wife had some crazy sixth sense when it came to her husband. No matter what Miles tried to sneak into the house, his wife found it. He couldn't get away with anything. He once ate a Big Mac at 11:00 PM, while she was away at her mother's. He'd ridden his bike in the direction of the glow of golden arches, paid cash, and had burned the wrapper in the outside burn barrel. She's still known he'd broken the "no food past 9:00" rule. She either had nanny cams or was a psychic medium, or in her case a "large" because she didn't miss ANYTHING. No. Keeping the money at home, even for a short time until he could return it safely, was not an option for Miles.
The store was open, but the sky was still dark. He couldn't imagine any thugs prowling around, not with Tool Towners in neon around every corner. He'd picked the perfect time to shove the money back under the pile of crap where he'd found it.
At least he thought he had. Until JT showed up.
He'd lied to JT, and he'd looked like an idiot in the process.
"What are you doing out here?" JT had asked him.
"I'm sneeking a cigar. Don't tell anyone," Miles had said.
"Where is it?" JT had asked.
"Where's what?" Miles had responded.
"The cigar?"
Miles hadn't answered. He'd offered to give JT a hand hauling the carcass of the Slim Spin 5000 into the dumpster.
JT had walked away shaking his head.
He thinks I'm an idiot.
He's absolutely right.
Too late, Miles had remembered the cigar in his pocket. He'd lit it, and had taken a few puffs while JT disappeared into the receiving bay door. Miles waited a few minutes to see if JT returned. He didn't. Miles knelt down on a plastic Tommy Tool Town bag and began poking around in the debris with the first two fingers of his pink-gloved right hand. The money was in an envelope, tucked under the side of the bag.
He never heard Slick Mitchell approach.
"What are you doing?" Slick asked.
Miles froze.
"Saying my prayers," Miles said.
"Seriously?" Slick Mitchell forced himself not to laugh.
"What? A man can't pray?" Miles asked.
"What are you praying to? The Palmolive Gods?" This time Slick couldn't control the laughter. He practically burst with it.
"Look it," Miles said, holding his pose with his right knee on the envelope, beneath the Tommy bag. "Can we just forget this happened?"
"I might be willing to do that, on one condition," Slick said.
"What condition?" Miles asked.
"Get yourself some help, man. You're getting weirder by the day."
"You couldn't possibly imagine," Miles mumbled.
"What was that?" Slick Mitchell said.
"You've got a deal," Miles replied.
Slick Mitchell walked away. He wouldn't forget what he'd seen, and he figured JT was right. Maybe Miles got himself into some Freecycle club or something. Maybe he was dumpster diving. Tommy's had a policy, what goes in the dumpster, stays in the dumpster, and Miles knew it as well as the next neon-clad guy. This time, he'd let it go, but if Miles didn't straighten up, Slick was afraid he'd have to fire him.
Slick pushed the thought from his mind. He needed to get busy. Sonny Brooks had the day off. Slick had to review some of the tapes in a random check, and report to Corporate Security. Everything had to be checked, double checked, and triple checked, and all roads led to Slick, especially since he'd recommitted to playing an active role in the day to day operation of the weirdest retail store in existence.
Slick settled himself into Sonny's office. He reviewed the tape from the day before. It was like the Amityville Horror. Paint cans flew everywhere. He saw Stockwell get clocked with a gallon of blue, and he tried not to laugh. He failed. He was still chuckling when he noticed a tape was missing. Whether or not he was a manager, and basically the top guy, because of his last name, Slick wasn't inclined to go through anyone's desk, or poke around anyone's office unnecessarily, but he had to find the missing tape. If there was something quirky on it, and he signed off on it, he wasn't fit to work for Tommy's, regardless of who his grandfather was. Slick finally found the tape. It was buried beneath fifteen Dunkin Donuts cups in the left file drawer of Sonny's desk.
Slick popped it in the player.
He watched for only a few minutes, checking the clock from time to time. He was hungry, and tape review was boring as heck.
He glanced back at the tape in time to see a coffee cup vanish.
"What the hell?" Slick said out loud.
He rewound the tape.
The same thing happened. His eyes had not been playing tricks on him.
He rewound the tape again.
The third time something caught his eye.
He watched the tape a fourth time, zooming in close and slowing it until it moved frame-by-frame.
The cup was there one moment, and gone the next.
Or so it seemed.
It wasn't the cup Slick Mitchell watched. It was the clock on the corner of Sonny's desk. It was barely visible unless one zoomed in on it, and he was surprised he'd even caught it. In the frame with the cup, the clock read 1:42 AM.
In the next frame, at which time the cup seemed to mysteriously vanish, the clock read 3:22 AM.
A single question ran through Slick Mitchell's mind.
What happened in his grandfather's store between 1:42 AM and 3:22 AM, and who didn't want anyone to see it?
Willie Dennison had supervised the entire cleaning event, and slept in his station wagon, surrounded by Pabst Blue Ribbon cans. Willie was a madman with a broom, who occasionally smelled like a brewery. No one coveted Willie's job, and therefore forgave him for his indiscretions.
Slick Mitchell was the first one in the door. He deposited his briefcase in his office, and walked the perimiter with a flashlight. If the lights had been on, which they weren't, or if the flashlight had been properly directed, which it wasn't, Slick Mitchell might not have stepped in a puddle of bird goo in aisle nine. But he did. He tracked it through aisles ten and eleven. Thankfully, Willie Dennison was due back in at noon.
The pterodactyl had been properly identified by animal control as a Turkey Vulture. Turkey Vultures were on the protected list, which meant that Tommy's couldn't take any unnecessary measures to rid themselves of the creature, such as having Reeve Stockwell shoot it with a staple gun. They'd have to live with it, until the bird could be trapped. If not for the bird goo, and occasional screeching, it wouldn't have been that much of a hardship.
Tommy's opened at 6:00 AM, per usual. Kitty Richardson was first in. She was dressed in black.
"Morning, Kitty," Slick said, and Kitty gave him little more than a passing glance.
"What's up with her?" Slick asked Quincy Warner. Quincy looked half asleep, probably because she normally worked nights, and had still been at Bitsy's at 2:00 AM.
"Kitty's still mourning that damn pen. If I find it, I'm going to stab her with it," Quincy whined.
"I'd prefer you didn't. Besides, if you find the pen, she'll probably snap out of it," Slick said.
"Good point. My brain's a little pickled this morning," Quincy admitted.
Amber Martin strolled in five minutes late. "You should get a new watch," Slick Mitchell said.
"You know, I never understood why people get gold watches when they retire. Maybe if they got them when they were hired, they'd be on time," Amber remarked.
"I'll take that under advisement, Amber," Slick Mitchell said.
Valentine Jones stood at Customer Service. She looked at the schedule and frowned.
"You all right, Val?" Slick Mitchell asked. He was beginning to understand why Stockwell had a sugar problem. One needed a vice when managing the front end.
"Why isn't Mags here? We were supposed to go to the Chinese buffet for lunch today."
"That buffet is skanks town," Quincy commented. "I was in there a couple weeks back, and this squirrel runs out of the kitchen. True story. The cook comes running out with a net. I asked him what he was doing, and he said, 'don't worry. Squirrel not dinner. Squirrel pet.' I ain't never goin' back there."
Slick Mitchell walked away. He had successfully dodged the question about Mags Davidson. Mags was on vacation for a week. Slick had gotten a message last night while half in the bag at Bitsy's. If Tommy's had another injury before the renewal of their comp insurance in six days, the company had threatened to cancel their policy. Slick Mitchell couldn't take any chances. Barbie Baxter agreed to take on an extra shift to cover for Mags, but only if she could wear a hard hat, just until the bird was captured.
Slick strolled through the paint department. The transformation was remarkable. JT Bueller had come in early to remove the charred remains of the Slim Spin 5000, and replace it with Tommy's aging train wreck of a paint mixer. The remains were headed for the dumpster. Partners in Paint had been banned from the store for life. JT was just returning from the dumping when Slick passed by the paint desk.
"Miles Longworth is out back farting around with the dumpster again. That guy's got a serious screw loose," JT commented. "Don't mean to be disrespectful, but is he a hoarder? Does he dumpster dive or something?"
Slick wasn't sure, but he decided it was time to find out.
****************
Miles Longworth stood by the dumpster outside Tommy's receiving bay. He wore his wife's rubber gloves, and held the envelope of money in his hand. He had to get rid of the damn thing. There wasn't any place he could hide it. He couldn't hide it in his office, or anywhere in the store, and he certainly couldn't hide it at home. His wife had some crazy sixth sense when it came to her husband. No matter what Miles tried to sneak into the house, his wife found it. He couldn't get away with anything. He once ate a Big Mac at 11:00 PM, while she was away at her mother's. He'd ridden his bike in the direction of the glow of golden arches, paid cash, and had burned the wrapper in the outside burn barrel. She's still known he'd broken the "no food past 9:00" rule. She either had nanny cams or was a psychic medium, or in her case a "large" because she didn't miss ANYTHING. No. Keeping the money at home, even for a short time until he could return it safely, was not an option for Miles.
The store was open, but the sky was still dark. He couldn't imagine any thugs prowling around, not with Tool Towners in neon around every corner. He'd picked the perfect time to shove the money back under the pile of crap where he'd found it.
At least he thought he had. Until JT showed up.
He'd lied to JT, and he'd looked like an idiot in the process.
"What are you doing out here?" JT had asked him.
"I'm sneeking a cigar. Don't tell anyone," Miles had said.
"Where is it?" JT had asked.
"Where's what?" Miles had responded.
"The cigar?"
Miles hadn't answered. He'd offered to give JT a hand hauling the carcass of the Slim Spin 5000 into the dumpster.
JT had walked away shaking his head.
He thinks I'm an idiot.
He's absolutely right.
Too late, Miles had remembered the cigar in his pocket. He'd lit it, and had taken a few puffs while JT disappeared into the receiving bay door. Miles waited a few minutes to see if JT returned. He didn't. Miles knelt down on a plastic Tommy Tool Town bag and began poking around in the debris with the first two fingers of his pink-gloved right hand. The money was in an envelope, tucked under the side of the bag.
He never heard Slick Mitchell approach.
"What are you doing?" Slick asked.
Miles froze.
"Saying my prayers," Miles said.
"Seriously?" Slick Mitchell forced himself not to laugh.
"What? A man can't pray?" Miles asked.
"What are you praying to? The Palmolive Gods?" This time Slick couldn't control the laughter. He practically burst with it.
"Look it," Miles said, holding his pose with his right knee on the envelope, beneath the Tommy bag. "Can we just forget this happened?"
"I might be willing to do that, on one condition," Slick said.
"What condition?" Miles asked.
"Get yourself some help, man. You're getting weirder by the day."
"You couldn't possibly imagine," Miles mumbled.
"What was that?" Slick Mitchell said.
"You've got a deal," Miles replied.
Slick Mitchell walked away. He wouldn't forget what he'd seen, and he figured JT was right. Maybe Miles got himself into some Freecycle club or something. Maybe he was dumpster diving. Tommy's had a policy, what goes in the dumpster, stays in the dumpster, and Miles knew it as well as the next neon-clad guy. This time, he'd let it go, but if Miles didn't straighten up, Slick was afraid he'd have to fire him.
Slick pushed the thought from his mind. He needed to get busy. Sonny Brooks had the day off. Slick had to review some of the tapes in a random check, and report to Corporate Security. Everything had to be checked, double checked, and triple checked, and all roads led to Slick, especially since he'd recommitted to playing an active role in the day to day operation of the weirdest retail store in existence.
Slick settled himself into Sonny's office. He reviewed the tape from the day before. It was like the Amityville Horror. Paint cans flew everywhere. He saw Stockwell get clocked with a gallon of blue, and he tried not to laugh. He failed. He was still chuckling when he noticed a tape was missing. Whether or not he was a manager, and basically the top guy, because of his last name, Slick wasn't inclined to go through anyone's desk, or poke around anyone's office unnecessarily, but he had to find the missing tape. If there was something quirky on it, and he signed off on it, he wasn't fit to work for Tommy's, regardless of who his grandfather was. Slick finally found the tape. It was buried beneath fifteen Dunkin Donuts cups in the left file drawer of Sonny's desk.
Slick popped it in the player.
He watched for only a few minutes, checking the clock from time to time. He was hungry, and tape review was boring as heck.
He glanced back at the tape in time to see a coffee cup vanish.
"What the hell?" Slick said out loud.
He rewound the tape.
The same thing happened. His eyes had not been playing tricks on him.
He rewound the tape again.
The third time something caught his eye.
He watched the tape a fourth time, zooming in close and slowing it until it moved frame-by-frame.
The cup was there one moment, and gone the next.
Or so it seemed.
It wasn't the cup Slick Mitchell watched. It was the clock on the corner of Sonny's desk. It was barely visible unless one zoomed in on it, and he was surprised he'd even caught it. In the frame with the cup, the clock read 1:42 AM.
In the next frame, at which time the cup seemed to mysteriously vanish, the clock read 3:22 AM.
A single question ran through Slick Mitchell's mind.
What happened in his grandfather's store between 1:42 AM and 3:22 AM, and who didn't want anyone to see it?
Saturday, April 21, 2012
Tommy's Tool Town - Chapter 17 - The Aftermath
Sonny Brooks watched the mayhem on the monitors, from the comfort of his office. He could hear voices coming from the Receiving Bay, which didn't frighten him. The voices belonged to Tommy employees. Sonny normally couldn't hear the voices, because Sonny normally kept the door shut.
Sonny no longer kept the door shut. If Tommy's had a ghost, Sonny wasn't taking any chances he'd be closed in a twelve-by-twelve room with one.
Sonny had seen the paint pandemonium from the beginning, from lock-and-load, to paint cans flying. For this, he was grateful. If he'd begun watching from the middle, as cans took flight, Sonny might have thought Tommy's had a poltergeist. Tommy's didn't have a poltergeist. Tommy's had J.T. Bueller, who wasn't skilled in how to properly load the Slim Spin 5000.
Sonny Brooks made his way to the front end, and the situation looked far worse in person than it had on camera. Paint was splattered everywhere. Customers and employees alike were covered with paint.
Mags Davidson was propped up in a chair at Customer Service, with an ice pack on her head. Sonny wasn't terribly surprised. Reeve Stockwell hadn't actually witnessed the debacle, but nonetheless, had not escaped harm.
Stockwell had been running toward the Paint Department when the last can took flight. The can had launched itself from the Slim Spin 5000, flown like a rocket down aisle eight, and had knocked Stockwell out cold. He was found, ten minutes after the smoke dissipated, in a puddle of a Midnight Surrender, Navy Blue, Interior Flat.
He'd ruined two shirts since he walked through the doors.
Stockwell sat next to Mags, holding a matching ice pack. Sonny found him huddled over a circular waste can.
"You all right?" Sonny asked.
"Wishing I'd stopped before the second fritter," Stockwell said. He was covered in blue. He looked positively green.
Barbie Baxter had taken cover behind customer service. She was paint-free, and seemed to be organizing the triage unit. She had her head in a first aid kit which hung on the wall.
"I've got another ice pack. You ready for a refill, Mags?" Barbie asked.
"I'm good," Mags said.
"I'll take it," Stockwell offered.
Quincy Warner had also come out of the nightmare relatively paint free. Her injuries consisted of a ruined manicure which she whined about incessently.
"I just had these done. Someone is going to pay for this. Where is that Partners in Paint idiot?" Quincy complained.
Everyone ignored her.
"What the hell is Kitty doing?" Sonny asked.
Kitty Richardson was covered in paint, and crawled through the wreckage, muttering as she moved. Sonny strained to hear what she was saying.
"She's looking for Melvin," Mags said. Barbie rolled her eyes.
"Who the heck is Melvin? Is that a customer?" Sonny asked.
"It's her pen," Barbie said. "It's her absolute favorite. She hangs on to that thing like a woobie. Sometimes she talks to it."
"That's insane," Sonny said.
"That's Kitty," Stockwell said, fighting to break his replacement ice pack.
Kitty continued to crawl through the wreckage. "Melvin?" she called. "I can't find Melvin. Melvin?"
"When the EMT's get here, you might want to have them check her out," Sonny suggested.
Kitty plopped down in a puddle of paint and sobbed. "Melvin," she wailed. "I'm sorry, Melvin." The hysterics were reminiscent of Castaway, when the remarkable Tom Hanks lost his best friend, a volleyball named Wilson.
"Melvin! Melvin, I'm sorry," Kitty carried on, and Stockwell covered his ears.
"Pickle," Stockwell said.
"Pardon me?" Sonny said.
"We're in a real 'pickle, Dick'," Mags said, and Barbie, Quincy, and JJ Patricks, who no one had noticed until that moment, laughed.
"What are you talking about?" Stockwell growled.
"That's from a movie," Mags commented. "I just like saying it."
"Pickle," Stockwell repeated. "The safe word is 'pickle'."
"And this is significant how?" Mags asked, incredibly astute for someone who probably had a concussion.
"Pickle is the word I say right before I kill Kitty," Stockwell groaned.
"Melvin!!!" Kitty, who had resumed crawling through puddles of paint, yelled again.
"Pickle," Stockwell hollered back.
"What do we do?" Mags asked.
"I say we let him kill her," Barbie said.
"Don't even think about it," Sonny commanded. "Imagine the amount of paperwork."
Before Stockwell could murder his right-hand gal, Willie Dennison, Tommy's maintenance manager, appeared with a mop and bucket. He stood surveying the mess, and scratching his head.
"You all right, Willie?" Sonny asked.
"I think now would be a good time to resign," Willie said, and everyone understood.
Slick Mitchell emerged from aisle seven, looking like a rainbow had exploded in his close proximity. He helped Kitty to her feet, and the two descended upon Customer Service.
"Did you find Melvin?" Quincy asked.
"Shut up about Melvin," Barbie whispered.
"PICKLE!" Stockwell screamed.
"How hard did he get hit?" Slick Mitchell inquired of his fellow manager, Reeve Stockwell.
"It's just a bad day," Sonny Brooks said, and everyone agreed.
"Well, I'm about to make it a heck of a lot better," Slick announced.
Most of the customers had cleared from the store. Several were being seen by the EMT's parked out front. Others were being assisted by Miles Longworth, who was in charge of the day's incident reports. Corporate was going to fire them all when they saw that impressive pile of paper.
"In an unprecedented move, I have decided to close Tommy's Tool Town for the remainder of the day. I have advised Willie Dennison to coordinate a professional cleaning crew to take care of this mess while the rest of us sleep," Slick declared, and everyone perked up a little bit.
"We could go to Bitsy's," Kitty said. Kitty was still weeping softly. She swiped at her eyes with her sleeve, and didn't seem to notice the smear of red paint she deposited on her left cheek.
"Bitsy's it is," Slick said.
****************
Two hours later, the crew of Tommy's Tool Town filed into Bitsy's Bar. Most of the crew was still covered in paint, which had dried while each completed an incident report, and waited for a clean bill of health from the paramedics.
No one required additional care. Not even Mags.
Bitsy's was relatively dead, as one would have expected for a work day afternoon. The bartender looked up when the crew walked in.
"Holy crap," the guy said. "You folks okay?"
"We just finished paint ball," Mags said.
"I thought they had suits for that," the bartender remarked.
"They were all out," Stockwell said. "We played anyway."
"Talk about taking one for the team. What can I get you?" the bartender asked.
"Pitchers of beer, and two of everything on the appetizer menu," Slick said. "It's on me."
"Let's play pool," Barbie suggested. "Miles, you play?"
"I'm gonna take a stab at some Quick Draw," Miles said.
"I thought you were giving that up?" Stockwell asked.
"Not today, I'm not," Miles replied.
Stockwell walked to the bar. "You got anything sweet here?" Stockwell whispered to the bartender, who looked up when he heard pool balls.
"Excuse me, miss. Is everyone dry? I can't be having you folks getting paint on Bitsy's pool table. She'll have my balls, no pun intended."
"We're all dry," Slick said.
"Man, you really got hit," the bartender said to Slick Mitchell. "Didn't you try to defend yourself? You got them cataracts or something?"
Slick Mitchell walked away. Stockwell held his ground. "Remember me?" Stockwell said.
"Yeah. What'd you want?"
"I'm flexible. Maybe a donut or something?" Stockwell asked.
"This is a bar, buddy. Does it look like we have donuts?" the bartender quipped.
"Nevermind," Stockwell mumbled.
Ten minutes later, a waitress appeared with several plates of appetizers. Two pitchers of beer stood empty. Slick Mitchell was refilling cups from the third pitcher when a train roared by, sounding a hell of a lot like a Slim Spin 5000.
Seventeen Tommy Tool Towners took cover.
Sonny no longer kept the door shut. If Tommy's had a ghost, Sonny wasn't taking any chances he'd be closed in a twelve-by-twelve room with one.
Sonny had seen the paint pandemonium from the beginning, from lock-and-load, to paint cans flying. For this, he was grateful. If he'd begun watching from the middle, as cans took flight, Sonny might have thought Tommy's had a poltergeist. Tommy's didn't have a poltergeist. Tommy's had J.T. Bueller, who wasn't skilled in how to properly load the Slim Spin 5000.
Sonny Brooks made his way to the front end, and the situation looked far worse in person than it had on camera. Paint was splattered everywhere. Customers and employees alike were covered with paint.
Mags Davidson was propped up in a chair at Customer Service, with an ice pack on her head. Sonny wasn't terribly surprised. Reeve Stockwell hadn't actually witnessed the debacle, but nonetheless, had not escaped harm.
Stockwell had been running toward the Paint Department when the last can took flight. The can had launched itself from the Slim Spin 5000, flown like a rocket down aisle eight, and had knocked Stockwell out cold. He was found, ten minutes after the smoke dissipated, in a puddle of a Midnight Surrender, Navy Blue, Interior Flat.
He'd ruined two shirts since he walked through the doors.
Stockwell sat next to Mags, holding a matching ice pack. Sonny found him huddled over a circular waste can.
"You all right?" Sonny asked.
"Wishing I'd stopped before the second fritter," Stockwell said. He was covered in blue. He looked positively green.
Barbie Baxter had taken cover behind customer service. She was paint-free, and seemed to be organizing the triage unit. She had her head in a first aid kit which hung on the wall.
"I've got another ice pack. You ready for a refill, Mags?" Barbie asked.
"I'm good," Mags said.
"I'll take it," Stockwell offered.
Quincy Warner had also come out of the nightmare relatively paint free. Her injuries consisted of a ruined manicure which she whined about incessently.
"I just had these done. Someone is going to pay for this. Where is that Partners in Paint idiot?" Quincy complained.
Everyone ignored her.
"What the hell is Kitty doing?" Sonny asked.
Kitty Richardson was covered in paint, and crawled through the wreckage, muttering as she moved. Sonny strained to hear what she was saying.
"She's looking for Melvin," Mags said. Barbie rolled her eyes.
"Who the heck is Melvin? Is that a customer?" Sonny asked.
"It's her pen," Barbie said. "It's her absolute favorite. She hangs on to that thing like a woobie. Sometimes she talks to it."
"That's insane," Sonny said.
"That's Kitty," Stockwell said, fighting to break his replacement ice pack.
Kitty continued to crawl through the wreckage. "Melvin?" she called. "I can't find Melvin. Melvin?"
"When the EMT's get here, you might want to have them check her out," Sonny suggested.
Kitty plopped down in a puddle of paint and sobbed. "Melvin," she wailed. "I'm sorry, Melvin." The hysterics were reminiscent of Castaway, when the remarkable Tom Hanks lost his best friend, a volleyball named Wilson.
"Melvin! Melvin, I'm sorry," Kitty carried on, and Stockwell covered his ears.
"Pickle," Stockwell said.
"Pardon me?" Sonny said.
"We're in a real 'pickle, Dick'," Mags said, and Barbie, Quincy, and JJ Patricks, who no one had noticed until that moment, laughed.
"What are you talking about?" Stockwell growled.
"That's from a movie," Mags commented. "I just like saying it."
"Pickle," Stockwell repeated. "The safe word is 'pickle'."
"And this is significant how?" Mags asked, incredibly astute for someone who probably had a concussion.
"Pickle is the word I say right before I kill Kitty," Stockwell groaned.
"Melvin!!!" Kitty, who had resumed crawling through puddles of paint, yelled again.
"Pickle," Stockwell hollered back.
"What do we do?" Mags asked.
"I say we let him kill her," Barbie said.
"Don't even think about it," Sonny commanded. "Imagine the amount of paperwork."
Before Stockwell could murder his right-hand gal, Willie Dennison, Tommy's maintenance manager, appeared with a mop and bucket. He stood surveying the mess, and scratching his head.
"You all right, Willie?" Sonny asked.
"I think now would be a good time to resign," Willie said, and everyone understood.
Slick Mitchell emerged from aisle seven, looking like a rainbow had exploded in his close proximity. He helped Kitty to her feet, and the two descended upon Customer Service.
"Did you find Melvin?" Quincy asked.
"Shut up about Melvin," Barbie whispered.
"PICKLE!" Stockwell screamed.
"How hard did he get hit?" Slick Mitchell inquired of his fellow manager, Reeve Stockwell.
"It's just a bad day," Sonny Brooks said, and everyone agreed.
"Well, I'm about to make it a heck of a lot better," Slick announced.
Most of the customers had cleared from the store. Several were being seen by the EMT's parked out front. Others were being assisted by Miles Longworth, who was in charge of the day's incident reports. Corporate was going to fire them all when they saw that impressive pile of paper.
"In an unprecedented move, I have decided to close Tommy's Tool Town for the remainder of the day. I have advised Willie Dennison to coordinate a professional cleaning crew to take care of this mess while the rest of us sleep," Slick declared, and everyone perked up a little bit.
"We could go to Bitsy's," Kitty said. Kitty was still weeping softly. She swiped at her eyes with her sleeve, and didn't seem to notice the smear of red paint she deposited on her left cheek.
"Bitsy's it is," Slick said.
****************
Two hours later, the crew of Tommy's Tool Town filed into Bitsy's Bar. Most of the crew was still covered in paint, which had dried while each completed an incident report, and waited for a clean bill of health from the paramedics.
No one required additional care. Not even Mags.
Bitsy's was relatively dead, as one would have expected for a work day afternoon. The bartender looked up when the crew walked in.
"Holy crap," the guy said. "You folks okay?"
"We just finished paint ball," Mags said.
"I thought they had suits for that," the bartender remarked.
"They were all out," Stockwell said. "We played anyway."
"Talk about taking one for the team. What can I get you?" the bartender asked.
"Pitchers of beer, and two of everything on the appetizer menu," Slick said. "It's on me."
"Let's play pool," Barbie suggested. "Miles, you play?"
"I'm gonna take a stab at some Quick Draw," Miles said.
"I thought you were giving that up?" Stockwell asked.
"Not today, I'm not," Miles replied.
Stockwell walked to the bar. "You got anything sweet here?" Stockwell whispered to the bartender, who looked up when he heard pool balls.
"Excuse me, miss. Is everyone dry? I can't be having you folks getting paint on Bitsy's pool table. She'll have my balls, no pun intended."
"We're all dry," Slick said.
"Man, you really got hit," the bartender said to Slick Mitchell. "Didn't you try to defend yourself? You got them cataracts or something?"
Slick Mitchell walked away. Stockwell held his ground. "Remember me?" Stockwell said.
"Yeah. What'd you want?"
"I'm flexible. Maybe a donut or something?" Stockwell asked.
"This is a bar, buddy. Does it look like we have donuts?" the bartender quipped.
"Nevermind," Stockwell mumbled.
Ten minutes later, a waitress appeared with several plates of appetizers. Two pitchers of beer stood empty. Slick Mitchell was refilling cups from the third pitcher when a train roared by, sounding a hell of a lot like a Slim Spin 5000.
Seventeen Tommy Tool Towners took cover.
Monday, April 16, 2012
Tommy's Tool Town - Chapter 16 - The Slim Spin 5000
Reeve Stockwell surveyed himself in the mirror. He looked like an idiot. The Garanimals shirt was in the trash, and he wore a Tommy's Tool Town, neon green shirt, which was two sizes too small. Pickins were slim in the Tool Town closet, and the tiny shirts were the only remaining size.
"Good grief, I look like 'The Situation,'" Stockwell moaned. The shirt was THAT tight.
Without the abs, he thought.
Stockwell's phone rang. It was Kitty calling.
"Yea?" Stockwell barked.
"Animal Control is here," Kitty said.
"So is Mitchell. Call him," Stockwell said.
"Slick is here? I haven't seen him," Kitty said, sounding ditzy.
"Yes. So is Longworth, at least he's supposed to be. That new paint company is demonstrating their revolutionary paint mixer."
"Sounds stimulating," Kitty said.
"Like watching paint dry," Stockwell retorted. Then he hung up.
****************
Kitty dialed Miles Longworth. She didn't want to bother Slick Mitchell. Kitty liked Slick, thought he was a heck of a nice guy, who was simply born into a family that would some day become gazillionaires. It wasn't Slick's fault, anymore than it was Kitty's, that she had a family tree that had maybe taken a few too many spins in the middle of a tornado.
Longworth didn't answer. Her call bounced back to the operator's desk. Quincy, "Q" Warner, sat at the desk, with Tommy lights bouncing off her turquoise locks.
"Operator," Quincy sang.
"Q, it's Kitty. I was trying to get Miles."
"I'll page him for you," Quincy offered.
"Miles Longworth, please call Kitty Richardson at extension 992," Quincy sang through the Tommy paging system. "Oh, jeez. Is it 6:00 yet, man do I have the cramps. I hate this time of the month, I'm like a maniac," Quincy whined, unaware her words were still blasting through the Tommy speakers.
Kitty's phone rang.
"Miles?" Kitty said into the handset.
"No. It's Stockwell. Tell Quincy to take a Midol, and remember to hang up the phone, thus disconnecting herself from the paging system, before ranting about her female problems."
Kitty laughed.
"Don't laugh. Just talk to her," Stockwell quipped, before hanging up.
Kitty dialed Miles again. This time he answered.
"What?" Miles said.
"That's a rude way of answering the phone," Kitty said.
"I wasn't aware I'd answered. I was trying to send you to voice mail," Miles said.
"How kind of you," Kitty complained.
"What can I do for you?" Miles asked.
"Well, the paint people are here, and so is Animal Control. They are going to set several traps to catch what they assure us is NOT a pterodactyl."
"And this is going to take how long?" Miles asked.
"They didn't say. They're back there now. Nichole is showing them around," Kitty said.
"Well, have her head toward the Paint Department. I want everyone available to be on hand to watch this demonstration. By agreeing to beta test this Slim Spin 5000, we have the opportunity to have it in our store for almost no cost," Miles explained.
"You working for them now?" Kitty asked.
"Don't be smart. Have Quincy page it out, but stand over her," Miles suggested.
"Why?"
"So you can shut her phone off when she's done. I don't need to know she has cramps, or that she had tacos for lunch, or that if said tacos give her the trots, she may have to ask to leave early," Miles complained.
"I'll mention it to her," Kitty promised.
Partners in Paint, the inventors of the revolutionary Slim Spin 5000, were setting up their paraphernalia in the Paint Department. A crowd was gathering. Decorating with paint was all the rage, and Tommy's carried hundreds of colors, from multiple vendors. The Slim Spin 5000 could spin multiple cans of paint simultaneously, in less than half the time, and was guaranteed to mix paint properly, every time. In a word, the machine was the Mercedes of the painting industry.
Slick Mitchell made some announcements and introduced the Partners in Paint demonstrator. The pterodactyl screamed from the back of the store.
"Seems our store appeals to multiple species. Animal Control is on the scene to remove our guest without harming him," Slick Mitchell explained.
"I like turtles," Bernice Lord said, from just behind where Kitty stood.
"Behave," Kitty said, barely turning around.
J.T. Bueller, Tommy's own paint specialist, pulled five gallons of top-shelf paint from the bowels of his department. He prepared each can to take a ride on the Slim Spin 5000. One by one, the demonstrator loaded the cans.
"Prepare to be amazed," the demonstrator said, sounding like he was David Blaine.
Ultimately, everyone was. The Slim Spin 5000 was almost soundless, nothing like Tommy's current operation, which sounded like a freight train had derailed, one department over. The cans spun at a rate of speed that made everyone take a step back.
"That's it, folks! Want to see it again?" the demonstrator asked.
No one really did, but Tommy's employees, and customers alike, were basically nice folks, so everyone humored the guy. Either the demonstrator really loved paint, or he'd been sniffing some. He was incredibly excited about spinning paint cans.
J.T. did his thing a second time, and the demonstrator walked him through loading the machine. When J.T. was locked and loaded, the demonstrator pushed two buttons, and stepped back.
"Here we go," the demonstrator said delightfully, and Bernice clapped her hands and jumped up and down.
"Bernice. Stop," Kitty chastised.
It didn't take long to figure out that something had gone terribly wrong. The Slim Spin 5000 was no longer soundless. It sounded like a washing machine stuffed with too many pillows, and the crowd backed up another foot. The demonstrator looked like he might faint, and J.T. took cover under the paint counter.
One by one, the paint cans ejected from the machine. Paint flew everywhere, dousing the crowd with every color of the rainbow.
Slick Mitchell's clothes were ruined. In a moment, his look had transformed from Maxim to Joseph and the Technicolor Dreamcoat. He moved frantically, tracking paint all over. He looked dazed.
"What the hell is happening?" Slick moaned.
The paint was still flying.
Finally, the Slim Spin 5000 stopped with a thunk. Plumes of smoke rose from its wreckage. The mayhem calmed, as the crowd surveyed the mess. Miraculously, everyone was accounted for, and nobody seemed to be injured.
No one noticed Mags Davidson.
She'd taken a nasty hit from a full can of Daisy Shimmer - Interior Satin.
"Good grief, I look like 'The Situation,'" Stockwell moaned. The shirt was THAT tight.
Without the abs, he thought.
Stockwell's phone rang. It was Kitty calling.
"Yea?" Stockwell barked.
"Animal Control is here," Kitty said.
"So is Mitchell. Call him," Stockwell said.
"Slick is here? I haven't seen him," Kitty said, sounding ditzy.
"Yes. So is Longworth, at least he's supposed to be. That new paint company is demonstrating their revolutionary paint mixer."
"Sounds stimulating," Kitty said.
"Like watching paint dry," Stockwell retorted. Then he hung up.
****************
Kitty dialed Miles Longworth. She didn't want to bother Slick Mitchell. Kitty liked Slick, thought he was a heck of a nice guy, who was simply born into a family that would some day become gazillionaires. It wasn't Slick's fault, anymore than it was Kitty's, that she had a family tree that had maybe taken a few too many spins in the middle of a tornado.
Longworth didn't answer. Her call bounced back to the operator's desk. Quincy, "Q" Warner, sat at the desk, with Tommy lights bouncing off her turquoise locks.
"Operator," Quincy sang.
"Q, it's Kitty. I was trying to get Miles."
"I'll page him for you," Quincy offered.
"Miles Longworth, please call Kitty Richardson at extension 992," Quincy sang through the Tommy paging system. "Oh, jeez. Is it 6:00 yet, man do I have the cramps. I hate this time of the month, I'm like a maniac," Quincy whined, unaware her words were still blasting through the Tommy speakers.
Kitty's phone rang.
"Miles?" Kitty said into the handset.
"No. It's Stockwell. Tell Quincy to take a Midol, and remember to hang up the phone, thus disconnecting herself from the paging system, before ranting about her female problems."
Kitty laughed.
"Don't laugh. Just talk to her," Stockwell quipped, before hanging up.
Kitty dialed Miles again. This time he answered.
"What?" Miles said.
"That's a rude way of answering the phone," Kitty said.
"I wasn't aware I'd answered. I was trying to send you to voice mail," Miles said.
"How kind of you," Kitty complained.
"What can I do for you?" Miles asked.
"Well, the paint people are here, and so is Animal Control. They are going to set several traps to catch what they assure us is NOT a pterodactyl."
"And this is going to take how long?" Miles asked.
"They didn't say. They're back there now. Nichole is showing them around," Kitty said.
"Well, have her head toward the Paint Department. I want everyone available to be on hand to watch this demonstration. By agreeing to beta test this Slim Spin 5000, we have the opportunity to have it in our store for almost no cost," Miles explained.
"You working for them now?" Kitty asked.
"Don't be smart. Have Quincy page it out, but stand over her," Miles suggested.
"Why?"
"So you can shut her phone off when she's done. I don't need to know she has cramps, or that she had tacos for lunch, or that if said tacos give her the trots, she may have to ask to leave early," Miles complained.
"I'll mention it to her," Kitty promised.
Partners in Paint, the inventors of the revolutionary Slim Spin 5000, were setting up their paraphernalia in the Paint Department. A crowd was gathering. Decorating with paint was all the rage, and Tommy's carried hundreds of colors, from multiple vendors. The Slim Spin 5000 could spin multiple cans of paint simultaneously, in less than half the time, and was guaranteed to mix paint properly, every time. In a word, the machine was the Mercedes of the painting industry.
Slick Mitchell made some announcements and introduced the Partners in Paint demonstrator. The pterodactyl screamed from the back of the store.
"Seems our store appeals to multiple species. Animal Control is on the scene to remove our guest without harming him," Slick Mitchell explained.
"I like turtles," Bernice Lord said, from just behind where Kitty stood.
"Behave," Kitty said, barely turning around.
J.T. Bueller, Tommy's own paint specialist, pulled five gallons of top-shelf paint from the bowels of his department. He prepared each can to take a ride on the Slim Spin 5000. One by one, the demonstrator loaded the cans.
"Prepare to be amazed," the demonstrator said, sounding like he was David Blaine.
Ultimately, everyone was. The Slim Spin 5000 was almost soundless, nothing like Tommy's current operation, which sounded like a freight train had derailed, one department over. The cans spun at a rate of speed that made everyone take a step back.
"That's it, folks! Want to see it again?" the demonstrator asked.
No one really did, but Tommy's employees, and customers alike, were basically nice folks, so everyone humored the guy. Either the demonstrator really loved paint, or he'd been sniffing some. He was incredibly excited about spinning paint cans.
J.T. did his thing a second time, and the demonstrator walked him through loading the machine. When J.T. was locked and loaded, the demonstrator pushed two buttons, and stepped back.
"Here we go," the demonstrator said delightfully, and Bernice clapped her hands and jumped up and down.
"Bernice. Stop," Kitty chastised.
It didn't take long to figure out that something had gone terribly wrong. The Slim Spin 5000 was no longer soundless. It sounded like a washing machine stuffed with too many pillows, and the crowd backed up another foot. The demonstrator looked like he might faint, and J.T. took cover under the paint counter.
One by one, the paint cans ejected from the machine. Paint flew everywhere, dousing the crowd with every color of the rainbow.
Slick Mitchell's clothes were ruined. In a moment, his look had transformed from Maxim to Joseph and the Technicolor Dreamcoat. He moved frantically, tracking paint all over. He looked dazed.
"What the hell is happening?" Slick moaned.
The paint was still flying.
Finally, the Slim Spin 5000 stopped with a thunk. Plumes of smoke rose from its wreckage. The mayhem calmed, as the crowd surveyed the mess. Miraculously, everyone was accounted for, and nobody seemed to be injured.
No one noticed Mags Davidson.
She'd taken a nasty hit from a full can of Daisy Shimmer - Interior Satin.
Saturday, April 14, 2012
Tommy's Tool Town - Chapter 15 - Something Wicked This Way Flies
Reeve Stockwell looked over the report on the desk in front of him. It wasn't so much the offense, but the date of birth of the offender. A ninety-nine year old woman called in a bomb threat, and showed up in a prom dress to answer for her crimes.
Stockwell shook his head. Yesterday had been a hell of a day, and he was about due for a good one. Tommy's had been open for almost eight hours. So far, so good. No one had called in sick, no one had called in a bomb threat, and miraculously, no one had been injured, although Mags wasn't due in for another five minutes.
Stockwell's phone chirped on the desk in front of him. For the first time in days, he wasn't afraid to answer it.
"Stockwell."
"There's a pterodactyl in the Kitchen Department," a shaky voice uttered.
"I beg your pardon?" Stockwell asked.
"There's a pterodactyl in the Kitchen Department," the voice repeated.
"Now, look it, less than twenty-four hours ago, we had a bomb threat prank. Pterodactyls are extinct. Get a life."
And Stockwell hung up.
****************
Nichole Deans was crammed into a custom cabinet, half a store away from Stockwell's office. Her miniskirt was shoved halfway up her back, and her butt was getting seriously numb, but she wasn't going anywhere until she figured out what the hell she had just seen.
She'd suspected for hours that something wasn't right. It wasn't intuition, so to speak, more the feeling of being watched. Then she'd heard it, a screech from just above her, the volume of which was loud enough to get her attention, but not so much that it alerted anyone else to her present predicament.
What the hell was that thing?
It would be different if she worked in a zoo. In a zoo, no one would think much of something flying on by, as one did one's paperwork, but Tommy's wasn't a zoo, not literally, and no flying thing belonged inside its walls.
Stockwell had hung up on her, and she could hardly blame him. She would have probably done the same thing. Maybe it was a security issue. Nichole punched in three numbers and the phone rang twice.
"Brooks."
"Sonny, there's a pterodactyl in the Kitchen Department," Nichole whispered.
"Bernice, stop making prank phone calls, and stop shaking the cans of Coke and putting them back. Customers are starting to bitch about our sodas being flat."
Click.
"Shit," Nichole Deans whispered. She dialed three more numbers.
"Kitty Richardson."
"Kitty, don't hang up," Nichole whispered. Kitty didn't.
"What's wrong? Why are you whispering?" Kitty asked.
"There's some freaking prehistoric looking bird in the Kitchen Department," Nichole said, sounding stressed.
"You don't say," Kitty said. "Where are you?"
"I'm inside one of the displays," Nichole said. "I'm hiding."
"Did you call Stockwell?" Kitty asked.
"Yeah. He told me to get a life," Nichole whined.
"He's cranky. His fritter dealer is on vacation. Hang on, Nichole. We'll come get you," Kitty reassurred.
"Hurry. I have to pee."
"We will," Kitty said.
There was a thirty minute overlap daily, when all three front-end managers were present. Kitty hung up the phone, and rounded up Barbie Baxter and Mags Davidson, who had just arrived.
"Girls, let's put Valentine Jones at the door and go to the Kitchen Department," Kitty said.
"Why?" Barbie asked.
"Nichole said there's some kind of prehistoric bird back there," Kitty explained.
"Jeez. That doesn't sound like anything I want any part of," Barbie said.
"Come on," Mags chastised. "Don't be a wimp. I'll go if you will," Mags said to Barbie.
"All right, but I'm not going without protection," Barbie said.
"Like a condom?" Mags asked.
"No," Barbie said, giggling.
"Then what?" Mags questioned.
"Do we still have those hard hats in the closet, the ones the kids from the middle school wore on their field trip?" Barbie asked.
"They were in there last week," Kitty said.
"If we can wear those, I'll go," Barbie said.
"Deal," Mags said. "I'll get us some flashlights."
Five minutes later, Valentine was stationed at the door, and Kitty, Mags and Barbie set out, in their yellow hard hats, to rescue Nichole Deans. Each held an enormous orange flashlight.
Stockwell was patrolling the perimeter when he saw them out of the corner of his eye. "What in the name of hell?" Stockwell muttered.
Reeve Stockwell made a split-second decision to pretend he hadn't seen them. He didn't know what they were doing, or why they were wearing hard hats, but today, he just didn't want to know. He was on a mission.
Meanwhile, Kitty, Mags, and Barbie arrived in the Kitchen Department.
"Nichole," Kitty whispered, and ten feet away, a kitchen cabinet door inched open a crack.
"In here," Nichole said, her voice soft.
All three girls crouched by the cabinet. Mags was the first to speak.
"How in the sam hell did you get in there?" Mags asked.
"I have no idea, but if you guys stand guard, I'm going to try to come out. If I don't, I'm going to wet my pants."
Barbie, Mags and Kitty stepped back, and Nichole practically exploded out of the cabinet.
"Jeez," Barbie said. "That was amazing."
Nichole laid on the floor, panting. "I think I'm permanently crippled."
Something screeched overhead. Kitty was still crouched on the floor. Mags and Barbie hit the deck like soldiers. Barbie's hat came off, and skittered across the floor.
"Shit! My hat!" Barbie yelled.
"What the hell is that?" Kitty whined.
"I told you," Nichole said. "Oh, God. If I don't go now, I am totally going to pee myself."
"Go. We'll cover you," Mags said, from behind a cabinet door.
"What are you gonna cover me with?" Nichole hollered, inching toward the Ladies Room on her belly.
The thing screamed again, and Nichole rose to her feet, and took off like a Kenyan in the last leg of the Boston Marathon.
"Guess she got the feeling back in her legs," Barbie said.
Something flew by the three, and Barbie screamed like a teenager at a Justin Bieber concert. Ten seconds later, Kitty's phone rang.
"Who is screaming?" The caller was Stockwell.
"Barbie. There's some flying creature in the Kitchen Department," Kitty explained.
"Good God in heaven, what next?" Stockwell groaned.
"Don't ask me, I couldn't make this shit up," Kitty said.
"I'll be right there," Stockwell said, before hanging up.
Stockwell stomped through the store like a four-year-old boy, who had been denied a Tootsie Roll Pop at the checkout in the local shopping mart. He'd had it, absolutely had it. He grabbed the first thing he saw, a monster staple gun, and held it to his chest. He arrived in the Kitchen Department in less than four minutes. Kitty, Mags and Barbie were all crammed underneath Nichole's desk. Two of them were still wearing hard hats.
"Get out of there," he roared, holding the gun like a madman.
"What's that?" Mags asked. She was the first to stand. She brushed Tommy dust from her bottom.
"I grabbed the first thing I saw," Stockwell said.
"What are you gonna do, put up flyers?" Barbie asked, rising to her feet.
"Have you seen this bird?" Kitty practically sang, and Stockwell glared at her.
Before another word was spoken, an enormous bird took flight from top stock. All four looked up. The thing was magnificent and horrifying, and Stockwell dropped the staple gun. It hit the floor with a clunk.
"What in the name of God was that?" Stockwell said.
"That was a pterodactyl," Barbie said. "I took a class on prehistoric animals as an elective, my last year of college."
"I thought they all died," Mags said.
"We get stock from all over the world. Maybe there's some out-of-the-way place where they aren't extinct," Stockwell surmised.
The bird made another pass, releasing an enormous stream of bird goo as it did. The stream hit Stockwell's shoulder, and ran down his back.
I never liked this shirt anyway, Stockwell thought. Damn thing looks like it ought to have a Garanimals tag in it.
Stockwell shook his head. Yesterday had been a hell of a day, and he was about due for a good one. Tommy's had been open for almost eight hours. So far, so good. No one had called in sick, no one had called in a bomb threat, and miraculously, no one had been injured, although Mags wasn't due in for another five minutes.
Stockwell's phone chirped on the desk in front of him. For the first time in days, he wasn't afraid to answer it.
"Stockwell."
"There's a pterodactyl in the Kitchen Department," a shaky voice uttered.
"I beg your pardon?" Stockwell asked.
"There's a pterodactyl in the Kitchen Department," the voice repeated.
"Now, look it, less than twenty-four hours ago, we had a bomb threat prank. Pterodactyls are extinct. Get a life."
And Stockwell hung up.
****************
Nichole Deans was crammed into a custom cabinet, half a store away from Stockwell's office. Her miniskirt was shoved halfway up her back, and her butt was getting seriously numb, but she wasn't going anywhere until she figured out what the hell she had just seen.
She'd suspected for hours that something wasn't right. It wasn't intuition, so to speak, more the feeling of being watched. Then she'd heard it, a screech from just above her, the volume of which was loud enough to get her attention, but not so much that it alerted anyone else to her present predicament.
What the hell was that thing?
It would be different if she worked in a zoo. In a zoo, no one would think much of something flying on by, as one did one's paperwork, but Tommy's wasn't a zoo, not literally, and no flying thing belonged inside its walls.
Stockwell had hung up on her, and she could hardly blame him. She would have probably done the same thing. Maybe it was a security issue. Nichole punched in three numbers and the phone rang twice.
"Brooks."
"Sonny, there's a pterodactyl in the Kitchen Department," Nichole whispered.
"Bernice, stop making prank phone calls, and stop shaking the cans of Coke and putting them back. Customers are starting to bitch about our sodas being flat."
Click.
"Shit," Nichole Deans whispered. She dialed three more numbers.
"Kitty Richardson."
"Kitty, don't hang up," Nichole whispered. Kitty didn't.
"What's wrong? Why are you whispering?" Kitty asked.
"There's some freaking prehistoric looking bird in the Kitchen Department," Nichole said, sounding stressed.
"You don't say," Kitty said. "Where are you?"
"I'm inside one of the displays," Nichole said. "I'm hiding."
"Did you call Stockwell?" Kitty asked.
"Yeah. He told me to get a life," Nichole whined.
"He's cranky. His fritter dealer is on vacation. Hang on, Nichole. We'll come get you," Kitty reassurred.
"Hurry. I have to pee."
"We will," Kitty said.
There was a thirty minute overlap daily, when all three front-end managers were present. Kitty hung up the phone, and rounded up Barbie Baxter and Mags Davidson, who had just arrived.
"Girls, let's put Valentine Jones at the door and go to the Kitchen Department," Kitty said.
"Why?" Barbie asked.
"Nichole said there's some kind of prehistoric bird back there," Kitty explained.
"Jeez. That doesn't sound like anything I want any part of," Barbie said.
"Come on," Mags chastised. "Don't be a wimp. I'll go if you will," Mags said to Barbie.
"All right, but I'm not going without protection," Barbie said.
"Like a condom?" Mags asked.
"No," Barbie said, giggling.
"Then what?" Mags questioned.
"Do we still have those hard hats in the closet, the ones the kids from the middle school wore on their field trip?" Barbie asked.
"They were in there last week," Kitty said.
"If we can wear those, I'll go," Barbie said.
"Deal," Mags said. "I'll get us some flashlights."
Five minutes later, Valentine was stationed at the door, and Kitty, Mags and Barbie set out, in their yellow hard hats, to rescue Nichole Deans. Each held an enormous orange flashlight.
Stockwell was patrolling the perimeter when he saw them out of the corner of his eye. "What in the name of hell?" Stockwell muttered.
Reeve Stockwell made a split-second decision to pretend he hadn't seen them. He didn't know what they were doing, or why they were wearing hard hats, but today, he just didn't want to know. He was on a mission.
Meanwhile, Kitty, Mags, and Barbie arrived in the Kitchen Department.
"Nichole," Kitty whispered, and ten feet away, a kitchen cabinet door inched open a crack.
"In here," Nichole said, her voice soft.
All three girls crouched by the cabinet. Mags was the first to speak.
"How in the sam hell did you get in there?" Mags asked.
"I have no idea, but if you guys stand guard, I'm going to try to come out. If I don't, I'm going to wet my pants."
Barbie, Mags and Kitty stepped back, and Nichole practically exploded out of the cabinet.
"Jeez," Barbie said. "That was amazing."
Nichole laid on the floor, panting. "I think I'm permanently crippled."
Something screeched overhead. Kitty was still crouched on the floor. Mags and Barbie hit the deck like soldiers. Barbie's hat came off, and skittered across the floor.
"Shit! My hat!" Barbie yelled.
"What the hell is that?" Kitty whined.
"I told you," Nichole said. "Oh, God. If I don't go now, I am totally going to pee myself."
"Go. We'll cover you," Mags said, from behind a cabinet door.
"What are you gonna cover me with?" Nichole hollered, inching toward the Ladies Room on her belly.
The thing screamed again, and Nichole rose to her feet, and took off like a Kenyan in the last leg of the Boston Marathon.
"Guess she got the feeling back in her legs," Barbie said.
Something flew by the three, and Barbie screamed like a teenager at a Justin Bieber concert. Ten seconds later, Kitty's phone rang.
"Who is screaming?" The caller was Stockwell.
"Barbie. There's some flying creature in the Kitchen Department," Kitty explained.
"Good God in heaven, what next?" Stockwell groaned.
"Don't ask me, I couldn't make this shit up," Kitty said.
"I'll be right there," Stockwell said, before hanging up.
Stockwell stomped through the store like a four-year-old boy, who had been denied a Tootsie Roll Pop at the checkout in the local shopping mart. He'd had it, absolutely had it. He grabbed the first thing he saw, a monster staple gun, and held it to his chest. He arrived in the Kitchen Department in less than four minutes. Kitty, Mags and Barbie were all crammed underneath Nichole's desk. Two of them were still wearing hard hats.
"Get out of there," he roared, holding the gun like a madman.
"What's that?" Mags asked. She was the first to stand. She brushed Tommy dust from her bottom.
"I grabbed the first thing I saw," Stockwell said.
"What are you gonna do, put up flyers?" Barbie asked, rising to her feet.
"Have you seen this bird?" Kitty practically sang, and Stockwell glared at her.
Before another word was spoken, an enormous bird took flight from top stock. All four looked up. The thing was magnificent and horrifying, and Stockwell dropped the staple gun. It hit the floor with a clunk.
"What in the name of God was that?" Stockwell said.
"That was a pterodactyl," Barbie said. "I took a class on prehistoric animals as an elective, my last year of college."
"I thought they all died," Mags said.
"We get stock from all over the world. Maybe there's some out-of-the-way place where they aren't extinct," Stockwell surmised.
The bird made another pass, releasing an enormous stream of bird goo as it did. The stream hit Stockwell's shoulder, and ran down his back.
I never liked this shirt anyway, Stockwell thought. Damn thing looks like it ought to have a Garanimals tag in it.
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