Kitty Richardson paced nervously, as Reeve Stockwell sat twitching from his Oreo-inspired sugar coma.
"I still think I should call someone," Kitty said.
"I'm all right," Stockwell moaned.
"What else have you eaten today?" Kitty asked.
"Two fritters," Stockwell said sheepishly. "And a Mountain Dew," he added in a whisper.
"I'm calling 911," Kitty shrieked.
"If you do, I will fire you," Stockwell said, his voice sounding stronger.
"And this is supposed to be a deterrant?" Kitty asked.
"Touche," Stockwell mumbled.
"Wait. I have something," Kitty said, digging in her pocket, and producing a bar in a red wrapper. "Eat this," she demanded, handing the bar to her boss.
"It says it's a protein bar for women. I'm not eating this. I'll end up bitchy with hot flashes," Stockwell complained, mopping at his sweat-covered brow.
"You're already bitchy, and sweating like a pig, and you're probably dying of a sugar coma. Eat it!" Kitty demanded, and Stockwell laughed.
"Way to take initiative, Kitty," Stockwell said, slurring a bit. He popped a large piece of the bar into his mouth, chewed a half-dozen times and grimaced. "What the hell is in this?" he asked, his voice muffled.
"Granola, berries, and something I can't pronounce," Kitty explained.
"It tastes like caulking," Stockwell said, spitting the bar into his hand. "I'd rather die than eat this," Stockwell complained.
"Your choice," Kitty said. She resumed her pacing, while Stockwell stared at the floor.
Finally, Kitty spoke again. "Why?" she whispered, and Reeve looked at her.
"Why what?" he asked.
"Why did you eat them all? No one in their right mind would eat all those cookies in one sitting. What happened?" Kitty asked, sitting beside Stockwell, on the floor.
"Did you ever think you'd have a different life, Kitty?" Stockwell asked.
"You've met Helen and Ada, right?"
"Right. In my mind, I am not living this life. Does that sound nuts?" Stockwell asked.
"It might be the sugar."
"It's not the sugar, Kitty. It happens when I'm not eating the sugar," Stockwell clarified.
"Oh. Maybe it's a wormhole. Maybe you're like Henry," Kitty mumbled wistfully.
"Who is Henry?"
"The husband in the Time Traveler's Wife."
"What's that?" Stockwell asked.
"A book, and a movie. Maybe you really are living a different life. I think I have a different life. Somewhere, I am living a great life, writing books, with reckless freedom and abandonment. There is no Helen, no Ada, and forgive me for saying this, but no Reeve Stockwell," Kitty said softly.
"You're not in my alternate reality either," Stockwell said.
"That's okay. I'm sure I'm off somewhere, accepting a Pulitzer."
"I'm apprehending bad guys," Stockwell explained. "I carry a gun," Stockwell whispered.
Kitty shot to her feet. "You do? Don't let Ada see it! She'll steal it and shoot our neighbor. His cats piss on the Buick's tires. Oh, my hell. That bakes in the sun for a few hours, and let me tell ya, Reeve, it is like driving Miss Daisy around in a badly neglected litter box with wheels."
Stockwell laughed.
"Kitty, can you keep a secret?" Stockwell asked.
"How long have you known about Ada?" Kitty asked.
"About a week."
"Well, she's older than dirt, so how's that for keeping a secret?"
"That's impressive, Kitty." Stockwell got to his feet, with a significant amount of effort. His legs wobbled, and his hands shook. Kitty held her tongue. "I found something. Something weird. Something bad. Something that could get us killed."
Kitty gasped. "Is it Anthrax?"
"What?"
"Is it Anthrax?" Kitty repeated.
"Why would you ask that?" Stockwell asked.
"Ada effed up the cable box, and I can't control my own channels. My TV is stuck on Criminal Minds for all eternity. Last night they aired an episode on bio terrorism. Follow me, Reeve. Tommy's is an empire. Empires have corporate offices. I have to figure that this store is the biggest thorn in their ass right about now. They could get rid of all of us with Anthrax."
"A lot of innocent people would die," Stockwell said, sounding shaken. The sugar was starting to wear off and he felt like he'd been hit by a train.
"I didn't say it was a good idea."
Stockwell sat on his toolbox and put his head in his hands. Kitty dragged a dusty box to his side, and prepared to plop down on it. Stockwell looked up.
"DO NOT SIT ON THAT!" Stockwell roared, and Kitty jumped so hard, she kicked the box, it tipped to its side, and five guns slid out.
Stockwell flew to his feet, wavered, and fell to the ground. He scrambled to where the guns lay. "You should take cover," he said to Kitty.
Kitty hid behind the refrigerator, the only witness to the receiving bay shenanigans. "Why?" Kitty whispered. "Are you going to shoot me?" she asked.
"Of course not," Stockwell said, carefully replacing the guns in the box. He crawled across the floor, and pulled the sixth gun from where he had hidden it earlier. He placed it on top of the others, closed the box, and sealed it with a tape gun he found on a work table. "We have to get rid of this."
"Where did it come from?" Kitty asked, stepping timidly from behind the behemoth stainless steel appliance.
"I don't know. It was really dusty, and I'm pretty sure somebody forgot it was even there," Stockwell explained.
"That doesn't tell us how it got there," Kitty surmised.
"I know."
"So, this is your secret?" Kitty asked.
"Part of it," Stockwell replied in a whisper.
"What's the rest?"
"I am going to solve the mystery of how these got here. I am not the shithead people think I am, Kitty. In another life, I am James Bond."
"I am Janet Evanovich," Kitty whispered.
"Who?" Stockwell asked.
"Never mind."
"We need to hide these," Stockwell said, carefully picking up the box. He seemed steadier, and Kitty wondered if it was due to the James Bond revelation.
"Where?"
"Out behind the dumpster there is an old shed. Behind that is an old dumpster that nobody bothers. Let's put it in there."
"When?" Kitty asked.
"The sooner the better," Stockwell declared.
"I'll stay here," Kitty said.
"No. You're my lookout."
"Oh." Kitty looked around, and smiled.
"What?" Stockwell asked.
"This is kind of exciting," Kitty whispered.
"I know. It's cool as hell," Reeve Stockwell admitted.
They both giggled.
"Follow me," Stockwell said. Kitty did. She followed him to the enormous bay doors. "You look."
"Okay. I feel like I should have a gun," Kitty said, peeking timidly outside the doors.
"We have six, Kitty."
"Oh. Right. Pretend guns are safer. See?" Kitty said, clasping her hands, and forming an imaginary gun.
"That's swell, Kit. How're we looking?" Stockwell asked.
Kitty poked her head outside the door again. "The coast is clear."
Kitty stepped out of the door with her hands held in "I have a gun," position, and Stockwell followed. The two walked soundlessly toward the old shed.
Miles Longworth stepped out from behind the in-use dumpster. He held a huge wad of cash. Kitty gasped.
"Longworth?" Stockwell said.
"Stockwell?" Miles replied.
"Busted," Kitty whispered.
Sunday, July 1, 2012
Thursday, June 21, 2012
Tommy's Tool Town - Chapter 24 - Your People Shall be my People, and Wherever Bubba goes, so shall I go.
Mags Davidson pulled into the parking lot. Although banned from performing her daily duties, per Slick Mitchell, and his obsession with Tommy's bottom line, Mags entered the Tommy compound and pulled in front of the doors to meet Val Jones for lunch.
The little silver sports car purred as it idled, and in the rear view mirror, Mags watched Alejandro and Wilton Scott acting out something she couldn't hear, but nonetheless found massively entertaining.
Mags was still laughing as she grabbed her cell phone from the passenger seat, and sent Val a quick message.
I'm here. Get your butt outside before Slick sees me. Love, Mags.
The phone hit the floor with a thunk, and Mags reached toward the farthest recessess of the passenger-side floormat, where the smart phone lay.
Come to Mama, you worthless piece of crap, Mags mumbled.
CRASH!
"What the hell!" Mags yelled.
"Holy shit!" she heard Miles Longworth yell.
"Good Lord, Mags has been thoroughly pancaked!" Alejandro screeched in a dialect that sounded part Middle Eastern, and part, "I may have crapped my knickers."
"Is she alive in there?" Miles inquired, trying to peek in the window that was one-tenth its original size.
"You know, most retail deaths are caused by merchandise falling from top stock. There may be undocumented cases of deaths in the parking lot, but I'm not sure I know any," Wilton Scott offered.
"Now may not be the time, Wilton," Miles whispered.
"Of course, sir. My utmost apologies," Wilton replied.
"Shut the fuck up and get me out of here!" Mags said. "And please do it before Slick sees me."
"Mags has dropped the F Bomb," Wilton remarked.
"Where've you been, Wilton? That's pretty much a daily occurrence," Alejandro declared, without a hint of any accent at all.
"No kidding?" Wilton asked.
"Nope. Not kidding. In fact, if Mags donated a quarter to animal rescue every time she dropped one, not only could the average shelter adopt out every animal they have, but they could probably afford to send one to the International Space Station," Alejandro suggested.
"Now that would be cool!" Wilton declared.
"Hello? Remember me? The F-bomb dropping front-end manager who narrowly escaped death a few minutes ago?" Mags yelled.
"Why, of course," Wilton said. "My apologies, Miss Davidson. How may we be of service?"
"Seriously?" Mags asked. "You could get me the eff out of here, and that only gets the kitties a dime, Alejandro, so don't be raiding my purse for a twenty-five center, got it?"
"Loud and clear!" Alejandro said.
"Where's Miles?" Mags asked.
"Back here!" Miles yelled from behind the automobile.
"What's up back there?" Mags asked. "Tell me I am leaking gas now. Tell me I am going to burn the heck up like a modern day Joan of Arc. I don't have any patience for martyrs, except Kitty, of course."
"Kitty does have her hands full with those old ladies. That grandmother is a hoot, but as understanding and accepting as I am of the idiosyncracies of the human race, I have to say that entire situation would probably send me running for a distillery," Wilton stated with compassion.
"Great, Wilton. Why don't you pick up a nice card for Kitty. I'm sure Hallmark makes a nice, "Sorry you're a martyr, keep away from open flames," kind of all-occasion, support-lending, rape the consumer for four dollars and seventy-nine cents kind of card, but for now do you think you can help me figure out how to get out of here?, and Miles..... What the heck is he doing back there?" Mags asked, as the car jolted.
Wilton pouted a bit, and took a couple of steps toward Miles.
"I've removed your license plates," Miles said.
"Why?" Mags yelled.
"They have your name on them," Miles mumbled.
"Good point," Mags quipped. "Now someone get me out of here, and call a tow truck."
The pickynick table customer, who had until now remained silent, piped in. "Already got one comin', folks. Hilda's son Bubba is coming out with his wrecker. Ought to be pulling in any second, and if it's leanin' hard to the left when it comes a rolling in, y'all might get to meet Hilda. Sometimes she rides along. She especially likes this area for its fine drive-thru establishments."
"My baby is not going anywhere with anyone named Bubba," Mags whispered to Miles, who shrugged.
"Let's just see how it goes," Miles soothed, reaching for Mags' hand through the tiny window space.
All involved kept vigil with Mags until a blue wrecker arrived, leaning heavily toward the passenger side. "There's cousin Hilda now. Bubba is a master mechanic. Should have been a runway model, that young feller. Don't know how Hilda birthed something like that. Kid loves cars though. Could have had a whole fleet of them if he'd a posed in his undies a few times," the customer said.
The wrecker pulled up, and the customer headed toward the torso of an enormous woman the vigil-holding posse could only assume was Hilda. Bubba exited the vehicle. Mags watched in what remained of the side mirror.
She gasped aloud.
"Hail Mary full of lead me not into temptation," Mags muttered.
Bubba looked like he should be part of a posse. A posse of fog-machine carriers, make-up artists, and nutrition-deprived Ford models. In a word, he was biblical. Johnny Depp good looks, abs that made Chuck Norris look like a soft-in-the-middle, late-night Dorito eating machine, and smudges of dirt, all in the right places.
"Baby, Mama changed her mind," Mags whispered. "But I'll find a way to ride along."
The little silver sports car purred as it idled, and in the rear view mirror, Mags watched Alejandro and Wilton Scott acting out something she couldn't hear, but nonetheless found massively entertaining.
Mags was still laughing as she grabbed her cell phone from the passenger seat, and sent Val a quick message.
I'm here. Get your butt outside before Slick sees me. Love, Mags.
The phone hit the floor with a thunk, and Mags reached toward the farthest recessess of the passenger-side floormat, where the smart phone lay.
Come to Mama, you worthless piece of crap, Mags mumbled.
CRASH!
"What the hell!" Mags yelled.
"Holy shit!" she heard Miles Longworth yell.
"Good Lord, Mags has been thoroughly pancaked!" Alejandro screeched in a dialect that sounded part Middle Eastern, and part, "I may have crapped my knickers."
"Is she alive in there?" Miles inquired, trying to peek in the window that was one-tenth its original size.
"You know, most retail deaths are caused by merchandise falling from top stock. There may be undocumented cases of deaths in the parking lot, but I'm not sure I know any," Wilton Scott offered.
"Now may not be the time, Wilton," Miles whispered.
"Of course, sir. My utmost apologies," Wilton replied.
"Shut the fuck up and get me out of here!" Mags said. "And please do it before Slick sees me."
"Mags has dropped the F Bomb," Wilton remarked.
"Where've you been, Wilton? That's pretty much a daily occurrence," Alejandro declared, without a hint of any accent at all.
"No kidding?" Wilton asked.
"Nope. Not kidding. In fact, if Mags donated a quarter to animal rescue every time she dropped one, not only could the average shelter adopt out every animal they have, but they could probably afford to send one to the International Space Station," Alejandro suggested.
"Now that would be cool!" Wilton declared.
"Hello? Remember me? The F-bomb dropping front-end manager who narrowly escaped death a few minutes ago?" Mags yelled.
"Why, of course," Wilton said. "My apologies, Miss Davidson. How may we be of service?"
"Seriously?" Mags asked. "You could get me the eff out of here, and that only gets the kitties a dime, Alejandro, so don't be raiding my purse for a twenty-five center, got it?"
"Loud and clear!" Alejandro said.
"Where's Miles?" Mags asked.
"Back here!" Miles yelled from behind the automobile.
"What's up back there?" Mags asked. "Tell me I am leaking gas now. Tell me I am going to burn the heck up like a modern day Joan of Arc. I don't have any patience for martyrs, except Kitty, of course."
"Kitty does have her hands full with those old ladies. That grandmother is a hoot, but as understanding and accepting as I am of the idiosyncracies of the human race, I have to say that entire situation would probably send me running for a distillery," Wilton stated with compassion.
"Great, Wilton. Why don't you pick up a nice card for Kitty. I'm sure Hallmark makes a nice, "Sorry you're a martyr, keep away from open flames," kind of all-occasion, support-lending, rape the consumer for four dollars and seventy-nine cents kind of card, but for now do you think you can help me figure out how to get out of here?, and Miles..... What the heck is he doing back there?" Mags asked, as the car jolted.
Wilton pouted a bit, and took a couple of steps toward Miles.
"I've removed your license plates," Miles said.
"Why?" Mags yelled.
"They have your name on them," Miles mumbled.
"Good point," Mags quipped. "Now someone get me out of here, and call a tow truck."
The pickynick table customer, who had until now remained silent, piped in. "Already got one comin', folks. Hilda's son Bubba is coming out with his wrecker. Ought to be pulling in any second, and if it's leanin' hard to the left when it comes a rolling in, y'all might get to meet Hilda. Sometimes she rides along. She especially likes this area for its fine drive-thru establishments."
"My baby is not going anywhere with anyone named Bubba," Mags whispered to Miles, who shrugged.
"Let's just see how it goes," Miles soothed, reaching for Mags' hand through the tiny window space.
All involved kept vigil with Mags until a blue wrecker arrived, leaning heavily toward the passenger side. "There's cousin Hilda now. Bubba is a master mechanic. Should have been a runway model, that young feller. Don't know how Hilda birthed something like that. Kid loves cars though. Could have had a whole fleet of them if he'd a posed in his undies a few times," the customer said.
The wrecker pulled up, and the customer headed toward the torso of an enormous woman the vigil-holding posse could only assume was Hilda. Bubba exited the vehicle. Mags watched in what remained of the side mirror.
She gasped aloud.
"Hail Mary full of lead me not into temptation," Mags muttered.
Bubba looked like he should be part of a posse. A posse of fog-machine carriers, make-up artists, and nutrition-deprived Ford models. In a word, he was biblical. Johnny Depp good looks, abs that made Chuck Norris look like a soft-in-the-middle, late-night Dorito eating machine, and smudges of dirt, all in the right places.
"Baby, Mama changed her mind," Mags whispered. "But I'll find a way to ride along."
Monday, June 11, 2012
Tommy's Tool Town - Chapter 23 - Monty Python and the Holy Sale
Miles Longworth and Alejandro Heckinbury just started at the overall-clad customer in front of them.
"You're suggesting we lug four hundred pounds of rock for you to Hilda test our picnic tables?" Miles asked.
Alejandro chuckled.
"What?" Miles said.
"Just thinkin'," Alejandro replied.
"Of?" Miles asked.
"Monty Python," Alejandro whispered.
"Seriously?" Miles asked.
"The mind of Alejandro works in mysterious ways," Alejandro said.
"Let us have it," Miles mumbled. There was no stopping Alejandro. If he had something to say, he said it, and allowing him to do so was the only way to move the day onward.
"Are you suggesting that coconuts migrate?" Alejandro squealed.
"Where did that come from?" Miles asked. The customer waited patiently.
"You said, 'are you suggesting, blah, blah, blah,' and that just came to me," Alejandro explained.
"Is that that Monty Python fella who did all those crazy movies? I saw this one with my grand boy, fella was whacking this poor knight almost to death, one limb at a time. Crazy shit, that was." the customer said.
"That's the same movie," Alejandro said, jumping up and down.
"Hello?" Miles said, sounding disgusted. "Remember me? The skinny-ass guy you want to lug four-hundred pounds of rock."
"Most apologetic," Alejandro said. "Just gettin' to know my customers a bit better, and having a chat about the beloved quest for the Holy Grail, Monty Python style."
"Perhaps we could focus on something Tommy's Tool Town style," Miles said through gritted teeth.
"I s'pose," Alejandro said, and the customer chuckled.
"Was that Monty Python I heard you quoting?" Wilton Scott said, as he passed by on the way to begin his shift.
"It was, indeed," Alejandro said.
Miles Longworth shook his head, and sat on the edge of the picnic table. "This is just what I need," Miles mumbled. "Two knuckleheads quoting Monty Python and absolutely no work being done."
"Gots me an idea," the customer said, ignoring Wilton and Alejandro, a feat Miles couldn't seem to conquer.
"What's that?" Miles asked, trying to tune out the antics of the two young men to his left.
"What'd you go for?" the customer said.
"I beg your pardon?" Miles asked.
"What'd you go for?" the customer repeated.
"I'm not for sale," Miles replied.
The customer laughed, slapped his thigh. "I ain't lookin' to buy ya. I's wondering how much you weigh."
"Oh. About one-nighty. Could be a few pounds more. The wife made lasagna last night," Miles said.
"And this crazy red-headed kid. What's he going for?"
Alejandro and Wilton stood ten feet away, acting out a scene from Monty Python.
"Alejandro!" Miles barked.
"I am not Alejandro! I am Roger the Shrubber."
"You can be 'Roger the Shrubber' later when the Outside Lawn and Garden truck gets here. For now, you're Alejandro, and I'd like you to come here, please," Miles said, losing his patience.
"My apologies. How may I be of service, sir?" Alejandro asked, looking sheepish.
"What do you weigh, Alejandro?" Miles asked.
"A lady never answers that question," Alejandro said, sounding like Marie Antoinnette.
"Dear God give me strength," Miles said, as the customer stood slack jawed.
"My oh my. I ain't never been to any store like this. I caint get a straight answer outta anyone, but I don't imagine I ever had so much fun in a shopping establishment," the customer exclaimed.
"We aim to please," Wilton Scott said, and Miles shot him a look that shut him up immediately.
"Alejandro?" Miles said.
"About two-twenty, but I'm trying to lay off the Twinkies," Alejandro said.
"Ever had 'em fried?" the customer asked.
Miles rolled his eyes. Here we go again!
"Fried Twinkies?" Alejandro said, resuming the jumping.
"Hilda done turned me onto them. No wonder that gal had to upgrade to a Doublewide. She gots herself one of them scooter things. We all went up to the state fair last year, had ourselves some deep fried Twinkies. Uncle Hank, he ended up with a pacemaker, but they didn't think it was Twinkie related," the customer said, as Alejandro remained riveted.
"Fried Twinkies?" Alejandro repeated.
"That's what I's saying, kid," the customer confirmed.
"Sir, I don't mean to be rude in any way or fashion, but you mentioned you had an idea before you asked us what we weighed, and got off on the fair/Twinkie/Hilda's scooter tangent," Miles said, trying to get everyone's mind back on the task at hand.
"Oh, right. I almost forgot," the customer said. "I go for about two-sixty. How about if I sits on this thing, and this red-haired fella here, he sits on my lap. That'd put almost five hundred pounds on the bench. Hold us, ought to hold Hilda, right?" the customer asked.
"Seems reasonable," Miles said.
"This way if the Jenny Craig backfires and that old gal gets even bigger, we should still be able to get through a family Barby-Q and not have to call 911."
"Mind if I stick?" Wilton Scott asked.
"May as well," Alejandro said, sounding southern again. "Ought to have witnesses, and perhaps you and Miles could create a shield of sorts, so no one sees me sitting on the lap of a fella who obviously isn't Santa Claus."
"Played him once for the kids at the VFW," the customer said.
"Oh? You don't say," Alejandro remarked, and Miles made a hand gesture that was universally accepted as the sign to "zip it."
"Wilton? Would you stand beside me please?" Miles asked.
"I'd be happy to assist," Wilton replied.
"I never did get my pony, Santa," Alejandro mumbled.
"Zip it," Miles said, and Alejandro sulked.
The customer sat on the corner of the picnic table, and patted his lap. Alejandro cringed a bit, but obliged the customer. Miles and Wilton held their breath, and the picnic table moaned a bit, but otherwise did well throughout the experiment.
"How about that!" the customer exclaimed. "You folks just sold a pickynick table!"
And it only took an hour, Miles thought.
"Now let's get 'er loaded," the customer requested, pointing to a pickup truck that had seen better days. The back was packed with every imaginable piece of crap discard.
"Where we gonna put it?" Miles asked.
"We'll just load her on top. She won't go anywhere!" the customer assured.
"I don't know about that," Wilton commented. "She seems to be sagging and tipping toward the right."
"Hilda rides shotgun," the customer said.
"Gotcha," Miles replied.
The four men, customer included, loaded the picnic table on top of the assorted junk in the back of the pickup. "Let's tie her in," Miles suggested.
"No need," the customer said. "I'm only going a mile or two."
"If you say so," Alejandro remarked.
The customer heaved himself into the pickup, jammed it into gear, and hit the gas pedal. The truck lurched back, and the table slid off in slow motion.
Wilton ducked, Miles covered his eyes, and Alejandro grabbed his cell phone, and hit the app for video.
The customer pulled the truck back into the spot where the disaster had begun, revealing the carnage behind him. A little gray sports car peeked out from beneath a picnic table on its roof. Only the rear of the car and the license plate were visible. The plate was custom, and bore only four letters.
MAGS.
"You're suggesting we lug four hundred pounds of rock for you to Hilda test our picnic tables?" Miles asked.
Alejandro chuckled.
"What?" Miles said.
"Just thinkin'," Alejandro replied.
"Of?" Miles asked.
"Monty Python," Alejandro whispered.
"Seriously?" Miles asked.
"The mind of Alejandro works in mysterious ways," Alejandro said.
"Let us have it," Miles mumbled. There was no stopping Alejandro. If he had something to say, he said it, and allowing him to do so was the only way to move the day onward.
"Are you suggesting that coconuts migrate?" Alejandro squealed.
"Where did that come from?" Miles asked. The customer waited patiently.
"You said, 'are you suggesting, blah, blah, blah,' and that just came to me," Alejandro explained.
"Is that that Monty Python fella who did all those crazy movies? I saw this one with my grand boy, fella was whacking this poor knight almost to death, one limb at a time. Crazy shit, that was." the customer said.
"That's the same movie," Alejandro said, jumping up and down.
"Hello?" Miles said, sounding disgusted. "Remember me? The skinny-ass guy you want to lug four-hundred pounds of rock."
"Most apologetic," Alejandro said. "Just gettin' to know my customers a bit better, and having a chat about the beloved quest for the Holy Grail, Monty Python style."
"Perhaps we could focus on something Tommy's Tool Town style," Miles said through gritted teeth.
"I s'pose," Alejandro said, and the customer chuckled.
"Was that Monty Python I heard you quoting?" Wilton Scott said, as he passed by on the way to begin his shift.
"It was, indeed," Alejandro said.
Miles Longworth shook his head, and sat on the edge of the picnic table. "This is just what I need," Miles mumbled. "Two knuckleheads quoting Monty Python and absolutely no work being done."
"Gots me an idea," the customer said, ignoring Wilton and Alejandro, a feat Miles couldn't seem to conquer.
"What's that?" Miles asked, trying to tune out the antics of the two young men to his left.
"What'd you go for?" the customer said.
"I beg your pardon?" Miles asked.
"What'd you go for?" the customer repeated.
"I'm not for sale," Miles replied.
The customer laughed, slapped his thigh. "I ain't lookin' to buy ya. I's wondering how much you weigh."
"Oh. About one-nighty. Could be a few pounds more. The wife made lasagna last night," Miles said.
"And this crazy red-headed kid. What's he going for?"
Alejandro and Wilton stood ten feet away, acting out a scene from Monty Python.
"Alejandro!" Miles barked.
"I am not Alejandro! I am Roger the Shrubber."
"You can be 'Roger the Shrubber' later when the Outside Lawn and Garden truck gets here. For now, you're Alejandro, and I'd like you to come here, please," Miles said, losing his patience.
"My apologies. How may I be of service, sir?" Alejandro asked, looking sheepish.
"What do you weigh, Alejandro?" Miles asked.
"A lady never answers that question," Alejandro said, sounding like Marie Antoinnette.
"Dear God give me strength," Miles said, as the customer stood slack jawed.
"My oh my. I ain't never been to any store like this. I caint get a straight answer outta anyone, but I don't imagine I ever had so much fun in a shopping establishment," the customer exclaimed.
"We aim to please," Wilton Scott said, and Miles shot him a look that shut him up immediately.
"Alejandro?" Miles said.
"About two-twenty, but I'm trying to lay off the Twinkies," Alejandro said.
"Ever had 'em fried?" the customer asked.
Miles rolled his eyes. Here we go again!
"Fried Twinkies?" Alejandro said, resuming the jumping.
"Hilda done turned me onto them. No wonder that gal had to upgrade to a Doublewide. She gots herself one of them scooter things. We all went up to the state fair last year, had ourselves some deep fried Twinkies. Uncle Hank, he ended up with a pacemaker, but they didn't think it was Twinkie related," the customer said, as Alejandro remained riveted.
"Fried Twinkies?" Alejandro repeated.
"That's what I's saying, kid," the customer confirmed.
"Sir, I don't mean to be rude in any way or fashion, but you mentioned you had an idea before you asked us what we weighed, and got off on the fair/Twinkie/Hilda's scooter tangent," Miles said, trying to get everyone's mind back on the task at hand.
"Oh, right. I almost forgot," the customer said. "I go for about two-sixty. How about if I sits on this thing, and this red-haired fella here, he sits on my lap. That'd put almost five hundred pounds on the bench. Hold us, ought to hold Hilda, right?" the customer asked.
"Seems reasonable," Miles said.
"This way if the Jenny Craig backfires and that old gal gets even bigger, we should still be able to get through a family Barby-Q and not have to call 911."
"Mind if I stick?" Wilton Scott asked.
"May as well," Alejandro said, sounding southern again. "Ought to have witnesses, and perhaps you and Miles could create a shield of sorts, so no one sees me sitting on the lap of a fella who obviously isn't Santa Claus."
"Played him once for the kids at the VFW," the customer said.
"Oh? You don't say," Alejandro remarked, and Miles made a hand gesture that was universally accepted as the sign to "zip it."
"Wilton? Would you stand beside me please?" Miles asked.
"I'd be happy to assist," Wilton replied.
"I never did get my pony, Santa," Alejandro mumbled.
"Zip it," Miles said, and Alejandro sulked.
The customer sat on the corner of the picnic table, and patted his lap. Alejandro cringed a bit, but obliged the customer. Miles and Wilton held their breath, and the picnic table moaned a bit, but otherwise did well throughout the experiment.
"How about that!" the customer exclaimed. "You folks just sold a pickynick table!"
And it only took an hour, Miles thought.
"Now let's get 'er loaded," the customer requested, pointing to a pickup truck that had seen better days. The back was packed with every imaginable piece of crap discard.
"Where we gonna put it?" Miles asked.
"We'll just load her on top. She won't go anywhere!" the customer assured.
"I don't know about that," Wilton commented. "She seems to be sagging and tipping toward the right."
"Hilda rides shotgun," the customer said.
"Gotcha," Miles replied.
The four men, customer included, loaded the picnic table on top of the assorted junk in the back of the pickup. "Let's tie her in," Miles suggested.
"No need," the customer said. "I'm only going a mile or two."
"If you say so," Alejandro remarked.
The customer heaved himself into the pickup, jammed it into gear, and hit the gas pedal. The truck lurched back, and the table slid off in slow motion.
Wilton ducked, Miles covered his eyes, and Alejandro grabbed his cell phone, and hit the app for video.
The customer pulled the truck back into the spot where the disaster had begun, revealing the carnage behind him. A little gray sports car peeked out from beneath a picnic table on its roof. Only the rear of the car and the license plate were visible. The plate was custom, and bore only four letters.
MAGS.
Saturday, June 2, 2012
Tommy's Tool Town - Chapter 22 - Fat Bottom Girls They Make the Rockin' World Go Round
Miles Longworth was a tall lanky fella. There were times this was a good thing. He could see above the crowd at sporting events and rock concerts. But, being tall and lanky came with a price. He whacked his head weekly on the behemoth chandelier of a thing that hung in his dining room, and he was easy to spot in a crowd.
He saw Harry Jensen eying him. Evidently Harry was moonlighting as one of the hosts of What Not To Wear, because the woman who stood beside her was certainly the week's unlucky contestant.
Harry waved him over, and the customer turned and made eye contact.
Miles had been made.
"Crap," he whispered under his breath.
"What can I do for you, ladies?" Miles said as he approached.
"I've got a stain," the poorly-dressed woman announced.
Harry Jensen rolled her eyes.
"I beg your pardon?" Miles replied.
"A stain!" the woman repeated.
"Seems to be blending well," Miles said. "I don't see a stain on you anywhere. Did you get your stain here at Tommy's?"
Harry Jensen starting trembling with unspent laughter. She steadied herself against a refrigerator.
"The stain isn't on me, it's on the carpet!" the woman barked.
Miles looked down at the cement floor beneath his feet.
"On my floor, young man, not yours!"
"Right," Miles quipped.
Harry stepped out of the customer's line of vision and covered her mouth. Her shoulders quaked.
"And how may I be of assistance with this stain issue?" Miles asked, as Harry Jensen grabbed her abdomen and doubled over.
"Carolyn died on the carpet and it left a stain," the customer said, prepared to repeat the story she'd shared with Harry Jensen.
"Good grief," Miles said. "Seriously?"
Harry Jensen nodded her head, as tears ran down her face.
"I'm very sorry," Miles said with sincerity.
"Thank you. That rug cost me a fortune. I need something to get the stain out, and something to clean the couch, preferably while Ralph is still on it. I hear the Rug Doctor is good. Does that work on Ralphs?"
"Ma'am, I'm terribly sorry, but I am not following you at all. You've got a stain, right?"
"YES!"
"And this stain is named Ralph?" Miles asked.
"NO! No sane person would name a stain!" the woman yelled, and Miles recoiled a bit.
"Who's Ralph?" Miles asked.
"Ralph is parked on my sofa. Carolyn's the dead one. She left the stain. Messed herself a bit during her passing."
"Sweet Mary, Mother of God," Miles whispered.
"You following me now?" the woman asked.
"Unfortunately, I believe I am," Miles replied. "Have you notified the authorities, or told anyone else about this body, other than our Harry, of course?" Miles asked, nearing the point of wanting to strangle Harry Jensen.
"Of course. They came right away. Dragged Carolyn off in one of those Hers vehicles."
"I think you mean a hearst," Miles whispered.
"Whatever. Anyhow, now I've got this stain, and I've got Ralph parked on my sofa. Old bastard smells like rotten garbage. Was hoping to get something I could clean the carpet with, the couch, and maybe even Ralph at the same time," the customer explained.
"Are you messing with me, Ma'am?" Miles asked. He could hear Harry Jensen laughing two aisles away. He was beginning to understand why Stockwell wanted to kill his staff.
"Why would you ask that?" the customer inquired.
"Because what you're suggesting is insane," Miles replied.
"That's rude," the woman whined.
"I'm sorry you feel that way, but I have no appliance, cleaning solution, or anything else in this store designed to clean dead body stains from carpets, whatever the hell might be on your couch, and people all in one shot," Miles said.
"You people are useless," the woman said, raising her voice.
"I'm sorry you feel that way," Miles said, not really caring how the woman felt. He just wanted her to leave.
"Is there anyone else here that might be able to help me?" the woman whined.
"I don't think so. Perhaps if you contacted a funeral home, they might be able to suggest something. They've got more experience with dead folks than we do," Miles said.
"Whatever. I'm calling the Better Business Bureau and telling them Home Depot sucks," the woman griped as she walked away.
"This isn't Home Depot," Miles said, but the woman was too far away to hear him. "Dear God above," he whispered, as he scanned the aisles around him.
He found Harry Jensen behind the appliance desk, on the floor, with tears rolling down her face.
"I hate you," Miles said, and Harry began laughing harder.
Ten feet away, a red-haired man-child popped up from behind a high-efficiency dryer.
"Good day, Miles," the associate said, in a thick British accent.
"What are you doing, Alejandro?" Miles asked.
"I'm an Alejandro in a box!" the boy announced, ducking down, and popping up again for effect.
Alejandro Heckinbury was an enigma. No one was really certain how the fair-skinned boy came to be named Alejandro. He had an accent for every situation, and was Tommy's move lovable associate. Mags was a close second.
"That's swell," Miles commented. "Did you need something?"
"Funny you should ask. Got a real crackerjack out front lookin' at the pickynick tables," Alejandro said, and Miles shook his head.
"Did she say anything about a stain?" Miles asked, wondering how the woman had gotten outside so quickly.
"Don't know anything about no stain, and this crackerjack is actually a lad," Alejandro explained. "A real redneck lookin' one, at that."
"Let's go," Miles growled. "I will pay you back for this," Miles said to Harry Jensen, who still couldn't speak.
Miles followed Alejandro through the store. The poorly-dressed woman was brousing the Rug Doctor display, with a very frustrated looking Barbie Baxter by her side. Barbie looked at Miles. Miles smiled and waved.
Spread the insanity! That was practically Tommy's motto.
Sure enough, an enormous man, in dirty overalls, stood beside the "pickynick" tables.
"Can I help you, sir?" Miles asked.
"Got an interestin' request," the man replied.
"It is that all right," Alejandro said, in a thick southern accent. Miles looked at him and he shrugged.
"What's that?" Miles asked.
"Well, I want to buy this here pickynick table, but I need to borrow, say...., four hundred pounds of stone to run a little test on it," the customer explained.
"Borrow?" Miles said.
"Yup. Just gonna borrow it. I'd like to run said little test right here in front of the both of ya," the customer said.
"I'm game," Alejandro said, sounding almost American.
"And what's this test for?" Miles asked, knowing he'd regret his words.
"Well, that would be for cousin Hilda. She done busted the last table. She copped a squat, the poor table gave out, and Hilda went a'rollin' right down the hill into the creek."
"You don't say," Miles said.
"I do say. Thank God the creek was there, or that old gal'd still be rollin'," the customer said.
Miles forced himself to keep a straight face. "What's the rock for?" he asked.
"Hilda, she be weighin' in about four hundred nowadays," the man declared.
"Sheesh," Miles said, before he could stop himself.
"She hits that potata salad hard, year round," the customer said.
"Sounds it," Miles said. "Have you considered a lawn chair?"
"You got a lawn chair hold a four-hundred-pound cousin?" the man asked.
"I don't believe I do," Miles replied.
"Then let's start haulin some rock," the customer requested.
Miles Longworth checked his watch. It was gearing up to be a long day.
He saw Harry Jensen eying him. Evidently Harry was moonlighting as one of the hosts of What Not To Wear, because the woman who stood beside her was certainly the week's unlucky contestant.
Harry waved him over, and the customer turned and made eye contact.
Miles had been made.
"Crap," he whispered under his breath.
"What can I do for you, ladies?" Miles said as he approached.
"I've got a stain," the poorly-dressed woman announced.
Harry Jensen rolled her eyes.
"I beg your pardon?" Miles replied.
"A stain!" the woman repeated.
"Seems to be blending well," Miles said. "I don't see a stain on you anywhere. Did you get your stain here at Tommy's?"
Harry Jensen starting trembling with unspent laughter. She steadied herself against a refrigerator.
"The stain isn't on me, it's on the carpet!" the woman barked.
Miles looked down at the cement floor beneath his feet.
"On my floor, young man, not yours!"
"Right," Miles quipped.
Harry stepped out of the customer's line of vision and covered her mouth. Her shoulders quaked.
"And how may I be of assistance with this stain issue?" Miles asked, as Harry Jensen grabbed her abdomen and doubled over.
"Carolyn died on the carpet and it left a stain," the customer said, prepared to repeat the story she'd shared with Harry Jensen.
"Good grief," Miles said. "Seriously?"
Harry Jensen nodded her head, as tears ran down her face.
"I'm very sorry," Miles said with sincerity.
"Thank you. That rug cost me a fortune. I need something to get the stain out, and something to clean the couch, preferably while Ralph is still on it. I hear the Rug Doctor is good. Does that work on Ralphs?"
"Ma'am, I'm terribly sorry, but I am not following you at all. You've got a stain, right?"
"YES!"
"And this stain is named Ralph?" Miles asked.
"NO! No sane person would name a stain!" the woman yelled, and Miles recoiled a bit.
"Who's Ralph?" Miles asked.
"Ralph is parked on my sofa. Carolyn's the dead one. She left the stain. Messed herself a bit during her passing."
"Sweet Mary, Mother of God," Miles whispered.
"You following me now?" the woman asked.
"Unfortunately, I believe I am," Miles replied. "Have you notified the authorities, or told anyone else about this body, other than our Harry, of course?" Miles asked, nearing the point of wanting to strangle Harry Jensen.
"Of course. They came right away. Dragged Carolyn off in one of those Hers vehicles."
"I think you mean a hearst," Miles whispered.
"Whatever. Anyhow, now I've got this stain, and I've got Ralph parked on my sofa. Old bastard smells like rotten garbage. Was hoping to get something I could clean the carpet with, the couch, and maybe even Ralph at the same time," the customer explained.
"Are you messing with me, Ma'am?" Miles asked. He could hear Harry Jensen laughing two aisles away. He was beginning to understand why Stockwell wanted to kill his staff.
"Why would you ask that?" the customer inquired.
"Because what you're suggesting is insane," Miles replied.
"That's rude," the woman whined.
"I'm sorry you feel that way, but I have no appliance, cleaning solution, or anything else in this store designed to clean dead body stains from carpets, whatever the hell might be on your couch, and people all in one shot," Miles said.
"You people are useless," the woman said, raising her voice.
"I'm sorry you feel that way," Miles said, not really caring how the woman felt. He just wanted her to leave.
"Is there anyone else here that might be able to help me?" the woman whined.
"I don't think so. Perhaps if you contacted a funeral home, they might be able to suggest something. They've got more experience with dead folks than we do," Miles said.
"Whatever. I'm calling the Better Business Bureau and telling them Home Depot sucks," the woman griped as she walked away.
"This isn't Home Depot," Miles said, but the woman was too far away to hear him. "Dear God above," he whispered, as he scanned the aisles around him.
He found Harry Jensen behind the appliance desk, on the floor, with tears rolling down her face.
"I hate you," Miles said, and Harry began laughing harder.
Ten feet away, a red-haired man-child popped up from behind a high-efficiency dryer.
"Good day, Miles," the associate said, in a thick British accent.
"What are you doing, Alejandro?" Miles asked.
"I'm an Alejandro in a box!" the boy announced, ducking down, and popping up again for effect.
Alejandro Heckinbury was an enigma. No one was really certain how the fair-skinned boy came to be named Alejandro. He had an accent for every situation, and was Tommy's move lovable associate. Mags was a close second.
"That's swell," Miles commented. "Did you need something?"
"Funny you should ask. Got a real crackerjack out front lookin' at the pickynick tables," Alejandro said, and Miles shook his head.
"Did she say anything about a stain?" Miles asked, wondering how the woman had gotten outside so quickly.
"Don't know anything about no stain, and this crackerjack is actually a lad," Alejandro explained. "A real redneck lookin' one, at that."
"Let's go," Miles growled. "I will pay you back for this," Miles said to Harry Jensen, who still couldn't speak.
Miles followed Alejandro through the store. The poorly-dressed woman was brousing the Rug Doctor display, with a very frustrated looking Barbie Baxter by her side. Barbie looked at Miles. Miles smiled and waved.
Spread the insanity! That was practically Tommy's motto.
Sure enough, an enormous man, in dirty overalls, stood beside the "pickynick" tables.
"Can I help you, sir?" Miles asked.
"Got an interestin' request," the man replied.
"It is that all right," Alejandro said, in a thick southern accent. Miles looked at him and he shrugged.
"What's that?" Miles asked.
"Well, I want to buy this here pickynick table, but I need to borrow, say...., four hundred pounds of stone to run a little test on it," the customer explained.
"Borrow?" Miles said.
"Yup. Just gonna borrow it. I'd like to run said little test right here in front of the both of ya," the customer said.
"I'm game," Alejandro said, sounding almost American.
"And what's this test for?" Miles asked, knowing he'd regret his words.
"Well, that would be for cousin Hilda. She done busted the last table. She copped a squat, the poor table gave out, and Hilda went a'rollin' right down the hill into the creek."
"You don't say," Miles said.
"I do say. Thank God the creek was there, or that old gal'd still be rollin'," the customer said.
Miles forced himself to keep a straight face. "What's the rock for?" he asked.
"Hilda, she be weighin' in about four hundred nowadays," the man declared.
"Sheesh," Miles said, before he could stop himself.
"She hits that potata salad hard, year round," the customer said.
"Sounds it," Miles said. "Have you considered a lawn chair?"
"You got a lawn chair hold a four-hundred-pound cousin?" the man asked.
"I don't believe I do," Miles replied.
"Then let's start haulin some rock," the customer requested.
Miles Longworth checked his watch. It was gearing up to be a long day.
Friday, May 25, 2012
Tommy's Tool Town - Chapter 21 - Appliances - A Crazy World Indeed
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.
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 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."
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