(Governor Tom's Note: I wrote this piece for a short story workshop during my senior year at Temple University. Reading it now for the first time in over a decade, I'm struck by the occasional whiff of The Catcher in the Rye. Funny, I don't think I'd heard of Catcher at this point. I know I hadn't read it. I didn't read it until three years after I graduated.)
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"Excuse me, sir," growled the old man from my right. I turned and looked up at him. His eyes were huge. Actually I should say eye singular. It was enormous, glaring at me from behind a thick lens. The other lens was covered with light brown tape. I felt like ripping it off to see what was wrong but thought better of it. Just by the way he was looking at me I knew he had the strength to tear my arm off even though he was old. His olive-colored skin had lines drawn in it as if some child had taken a pick and set to carving his face. His bald head reflected the gold bulbs that bordered the mirror-columns all around the store. The reflection almost blinded me whenever he tilted his head forward a little, which he did as he dug out his wallet. The gray goatee was losing its look in the middle of the stubble that crowded around it like little bugs. He held up a pair of khakis so the whole length of the pants hung down, and his arm was the clothesline. "I said, can you ring this up?" His voice was so grating. It reminded me of a metal sheet grinding against a rocky surface. Now I wanted to scratch my own throat.
I was in the middle of thinking about which story from my English Lit class I should use for that essay about the writer and his world when this pirate showed up. I snatched the pair of pants off the clothesline and zapped them with my laser gun. I secretly fired a shot at his stomach while he was finding the right bill to pull out of his wallet. He may not have felt that shot now, but when that tumor starts growing in a few years, he’ll feel it. I took his bill, stuffed it in the drawer, and gave him his change. As I was bagging the pants, Stephanie from Cosmetics strode over, her long, tanned legs extending gracefully from the tantalizingly short skirt. I could actually smell her perfume before I saw her, almost making me dizzy with lust. When she reached my counter, she flung her Nordic blonde hair behind her shoulder in such a way that I wanted to get on my knees and worship her like the goddess she was. I fought the urge. "Some guy returned this to my counter," she said, singing her words softly. "He said they didn’t fit him. I don’t know why he didn’t just come to you."
"Oh, uh, th-that’s okay," I stuttered. I wanted to hit myself. "Just put them there." I gestured toward my counter. The pirate almost had to turn completely around so his one eye could get a look at her.
"Whoa!" the pirate shouted. Stephanie didn’t know what that meant. She dropped the turtlenecks on the counter, turned around (her hair flowing behind), and strode away. I caught myself just before I drooled, sucking the spit back in.
"Thanks have a nice night," I mumbled to the pirate as I handed him his bag. After he left, I grabbed the turtlenecks and sniffed them. They still had the "new" smell so it could be the guy never tried them on at all. The first rule of retail was that whenever someone returned something, the reason they gave was a lie. And now it was happening more than ever in the post-Christmas gift-returning rush. I heard Stephanie laughing. Turning around, I saw her at the Cosmetics counter flirting with Roy from Men’s Suits. He was even taller than her, dark groomed hair, and a face that could have been chiseled out of stone. I couldn’t hear what he was saying, but it was enough to make her laugh. He laughed with her. I turned away to keep my heart from growing too heavy, but when I saw my reflection in the mirror column adjacent to my counter, it just got worse. I scowled at my five feet, four inch frame staring back at me. How was I ever going to get the attention of someone like Stephanie with this body, or lack of one, I should say? I threw the turtlenecks under the counter in disgust, kicking the foot of the counter angrily. Now my big toe throbbed, but I didn’t care.
At the sound of squeaking wheels I looked up and saw a woman even older than that pirate. She was huffing and puffing into my department, tugging along with her a hand truck which held a big gas tank that fed tubes into her nose. I shook my head. What the hell kind of customers was this store bringing in? I looked around and saw she was the only one in my department. She was moving slowly, so I could get back to thinking about my disaster of a day.
I had to write an essay for English Lit, but I didn’t know what to write about. Not that it mattered. I wouldn’t be able to print because last night my laser printer, which I just spent six hundred dollars on last month, suddenly claimed my computer didn’t have enough memory to print. Unbelievable! Sixty-four megs of memory my computer has! And my printer thinks that isn’t enough! It’s certainly enough to play the best games on the market today so I know it’s enough to print. Now I’ve got to take it back to the store for an exchange when I have time which will be never because I never have time during the semester. Never. Ever.
As the tank woman was browsing through the wallets, Juan Carlos from Argentina, who works in the store’s bridal registry, walked by, showing an engaged couple around the store who were looking for things to add to their registry. He hurried them past my department. I knew he could feel my grumpy eyes on him all the way through. Watching him scurry reminded me of my Spanish class. For tomorrow I had to read a short story in Spanish and be prepared to discuss it in Spanish. Forget it. I had too much else to do. I needed to get out of here. I looked at my watch, and it told me nine-twenty. Only ten more minutes to go. I needed to get the tank woman out of my department so I could close my register. I was about to step out from behind my counter when the store manager, Kermit Eck, ran up to me and patted me on my head. The nerve this guy had! If he hadn’t been the store manager, I would have punched him in his gut. One shot could’ve doubled over this red-headed beanstalk. He had to be at least six feet four, but I couldn’t tell how old he was because he looked so weird. Thirty? Thirty five? Fifty?
"How’d everything go here tonight, Randy?" he said in his high-pitched voice, as if he’d been kicked in the nuts years ago and still hadn’t recovered. "Everything go okay?"
"Fine," I said through clenched teeth. I balled up my fists until my knuckles shone white.
The tank woman had picked out the wallet she wanted and was wheeling her air around with her toward my counter. Kermit took off at a dash toward the escalator. I laughed to myself. How could the manager of a department store be afraid of customer service? He was leaping up the escalator steps in twos when the woman finally got to my counter, the squeaking wheels of her hand truck coming to a halt. While she dug around in her purse all I could see was her long hair, once dark, now almost completely taken over by gray. Her long trench coat was dirty, and her dark green and red scarf certainly didn’t belong with it. It was like she reached blindly into a pile of clothes and wore whatever she pulled out. And now she could have passed for a clown.
Then she looked down at me, and my insides fell. Here she was up close, a pair of tubes going into her nostrils, her yellow eyes only half open as if she could have just as well gone to sleep here than anywhere. Her mouth sagged down in the same manner. I got the feeling she wasn’t just sad at this moment, but this was how she always looked. This was what her disease and having to lug around this oxygen tank had done to her. I knew I was never a good judge of age, but I got the feeling she was a lot younger than she looked. The disease had gobbled up her years the same way it was doing to her body. I zapped her wallet and was careful not to point the gun at her. Handing over the money was an obvious struggle. I gently accepted it from her trembling hand. I stuck it in the drawer slowly, as if the money were as fragile as her. When I gave her the change, I avoided looking at her at all costs. It was like her face trapped all the sadness and grief in the world and now she was threatening my mood with it. And, much to my own surprise, was succeeding.
After her trembling hand took the bag with the wallet in it, she put it into her purse before grabbing onto the hand truck. I watched her go, the wheels squeaking in full force, when the store operator announced the store closing over the PA system. "Good evening, shoppers, the time is now nine-thirty, and your Palace is now closed for the day. We appreciate your patronage and invite you to shop tomorrow from ten to nine-thirty. Thank you and good night. The store is now closed." The tank woman was the only one left in the store, and at her pace she wasn’t going to be out any time soon. Who’d let her out by herself? Obviously she was in no such condition to shop by herself. I watched her getting closer to the glass doors. There was no way she could get through those by herself. I hurried out from behind my counter–the air felt much cleaner out here–and rushed over to the double glass doors, opening one for her to let her pass through. She looked up at me and offered a poor excuse for a smile as she walked through. Out in the chilly night air a car was waiting for her. I couldn’t see who was at the driver’s wheel because all the windows were black. Despite the cold she didn’t hurry to the car but continued in her slow, sick way. I closed the glass door and watched her from where it was warm. Someone from the passenger side got out to help her.
In the reflection of the door I could see Lance from Sporting Goods speed by, his blond pony tail bobbing up and down. "Hey Ran how ya doin’?" he said without stopping.
"Fine," I told him. I saw him shaking his head, figuring I was just being my old cynically sarcastic self. But I meant it this time. This old woman, who was getting into the back seat with her oxygen tank, had told me. I looked at my own reflection in the door and didn’t feel the need to scowl anymore. I was doing just fine.
