Reckless (36 page)

I skulked back to my post at the register. My ICEE high would have to wait.

In the past, I’d thought the sound of those bing-bong bells was kind of cute. I remember, whenever I’d walk through the doors in some random store and heard that bing-bong, I’d go back-and-forth a bunch of times, just to hear the sound. The cheery bell sounded cartoony and funny to me. I’d never understood why store clerks always glared at me when I did it.

Now I did.

I hated that fucking bell.

During peak hours, it went off every two seconds. Recently, I’d started hearing it in my sleep.

I focused on my new customer, who was still nothing more than a silhouette in the blinding afternoon sunlight coming through the front windows.

I couldn’t make out any details yet.

On my first day of work, I’d felt ethically obligated to warn my boss that the name Grab-n-Dash was basically an invitation to shoplift. He utterly denied it.

Since that day, I knew for a fact that at least ten candy bars, seven bottles of water, and a bottle of aspirin had been stolen. Did I catch the snack burglars? No. My manager told me about it at the end of my first week.

I encouraged him to change the name of the store.

He said no.

I had shrugged.

He had jabbed his finger in my face, almost jamming it up my nostril. “No more shoplifters, young lady!” He had very bushy eyebrows.

I had almost laughed, because of his eyebrows, but I wanted to keep my job. Because I totally loved it.

Sigh.

Anyway, now I was hawk-eyed for shoplifters.

Everyone who came in was a candidate for Crook of the Week.

As the new customer ventured further into the store, I could finally make him out. He was a disheveled homeless man, grimy from head to toe. He moved so slowly, I didn’t think he’d try to nab anything while I was watching. But I was going to need to mop up after he left. Ew.
 

He shuffled through the aisles, literally walking up and down each one. Twice. He was doing laps, almost like a rat in a maze. That’s how I felt when I was here.

The man continued to wander aimlessly.

Was he lost?

I hoped not, otherwise I was afraid I’d have to call an exterminator.

Thankfully, he eventually made it to the refrigerators in back. He grabbed a twelve-pack of beer. Would it be his lunch, because he was a late riser, or an early dinner? It didn’t matter to me. More power to him.
 

He shuffled up to the register.

“Welcome to Grab-n-Dash. How can I brighten your day?” Yeah, I had to say it to
every
one.

He grunted.

Whatever.

I was supposed to card anyone who looked under the age of sixty. I’m pretty sure this guy was over a hundred.

I rang up his twelver of Budweiser.

“$6.99, please,” I beamed.

The guy was squinting at me. They all did. It was the shirt. It had no brightness control. Deal with it.

The man reached into his pants, and I mean, into his pants, like, right down the front, into his cash drawer, if you know what I’m saying.

He pulled out a greasy wad of bills. Like,
literally
greasy. Dark, stained like they’d been buried in a deposit of petroleum under the earth’s crust for at least a billion years, the same amount of time the bills must have spent in this man’s crusty pants.

He tore off a small wad and dropped it on the counter.

Um, no?

I really needed one of those radiation-proof containment-boxes you see in TV shows, the ones with the windows where you stick your arms inside the rubber gloves attached to the sides? Yeah, those. Maybe I could ask my manager to build one around the Grab-n-Dash cash counter? Or not.

I eyed the black wad on the counter with some measure of revulsion. By some measure, I meant a number higher than modern mathematics has yet been able to count.

Was it even money? Did I have to find out?

I wondered if I could just pick it up with the hot dog tongs and drop it in the register? I would totally throw the tongs away after using them instead of hanging them back on the side of the hot-dog griller. I wasn’t gross. But I suspected my manager would freak out if he found the tongs in the garbage. I didn’t need him yelling at me and adding more stress to my life.

I needed another solution.

I looked between the man, his dirty money, the man, his dirty money.

I couldn’t bring myself to touch the blackened ball.

“I need change,” he rasped.

I was ready to sob.

Then, genius struck.

I grabbed my purse from under the counter and pulled out my own comparatively immaculate cash. “You know what?! Today is your lucky day!!”

He blinked.

“Your beer is free!!!!” I sang.

“Did I win something?” he grunted doubtfully.

“No! I’m paying for it!” I smiled as widely as possible, until my cheeks hurt. I’m pretty sure what I was doing was illegal, since it was beer. Fuck it. My generosity was above the law. I was the Robin Hood of beer, and this man would pay for beer over my dead body.

“Oh, I can’t take your money, young lady,” he rasped, then nudged the wad toward me with his grimy hands. The ball of bills tumbled toward me, almost toppling over the edge of the counter.
 

I winced, thinking I would have to pick it up. I reminded myself I still had those hot-dog tongs in case of emergency.

“I can pay,” he rasped.

“Oh, uh, I meant, YOU’RE THE WINNER!!!”

“Huh?” he was confused.

“You’re the, uh, millionth customer today! And every millionth customer gets a free twelve pack of Budweiser!” I’m sure I sounded as sane as Charles Manson at that point.

“Really,” he smiled. “You don’t say?”

“I do say, I really do!” I grit my teeth into the biggest smile I could. “Take it!”

“Thank you, young lady.” He picked up the twelve-pack.

Was he going to take the money? I think it was burning a hole into the countertop. Because it was radioactive. “Your money, sir? You don’t want to forget your money!”
Please don’t forget your money!!!

He smiled at me, revealing one tooth. “Thank you, young lady. You’re a peach. You really are.”

“You’re welcome!!” I grimaced.
 

He set the twelve-pack down, scooped up the wad, pulled the waistband of his dirty cash drawer open, and dropped his wad inside. I know, it was as wrong as it sounded.
 

The poor man shambled outside.

Toward the end of my shift, the busy after-work crowd had thinned to nothing. I eyed the ICEE machine.

I really needed a brain freeze, otherwise my brain was going to instruct me to drink that antifreeze before the end of my shift. Again, I checked that the coast was clear. I tiptoed over to the ICEE dispenser. Not that anyone would’ve heard me.

I leaned my head under it. It was sort of awkward, but I was determined to get my mouth beneath the spout without wrapping my lips around it. Blue-raspberry, here I come. I was going to drown myself in it and brain freeze away my boredom.

I grabbed the lever with my hand and—

“Sam, what are you doing?!” Romeo laughed.

I twisted around and managed to bang my forehead against the spigot. “Ow!!”

“You okay?”

“Yeah.” I rubbed my forehead.

“Shouldn’t you use a cup?” he smiled.

“Uh…we have to pay for them.”

“You don’t get free ICEEs?”

“No.”

“Your boss is a miser.”

“He has bushy eyebrows,” I said. “Didn’t Scrooge have bushy eyebrows? I think the ghosts of Christmas past, present, and future visited me today.”

“Oh, Sam, that’s terrible. This situation
definitely
calls for an ICEE,” Romeo smiled and leaned under the blue-raspberry spout. He turned the lever before I could stop him. Blue-raspberry funneled into his mouth. “Ahh, eah, at’s oooo ooood.” He sounded exactly like Homer Simpson.

I broke into laughter.
 

Romeo kept going, swallowing more and more and more ICEE slush. “Stop, Romeo! You’re going to hurt yourself!” I pushed the lever closed.

Romeo stood back up, an ICEE-eating grin on his face. His eyes were watering.

“Are you okay?” I asked, concerned.

Looking around nervously, he choked out a cough.
 

He looked back at me, eyes glazed.

“Romeo? Are you okay?” I was getting worried.

He blinked several times forcefully, then his face pinched to a pinpoint. “Owwwwww!!” he hollered in extreme pain. “My head!!!!”
 

I burst out laughing. Sometimes, when doing something stupid, it was safer to let the idiots go first. “Do you want some hot coffee or something?” I offered compassionately.

Romeo shook his head like a wet dog. His lips flapped and he made a “Gugga-gugga-gugga” noise, then winced and jammed the heels of his hands into his eyes. “My eyes feel like someone’s stabbing them!”

“Let me get you some hot water.” I filled a coffee cup with hot water, then added cold water from the soda machine until it wasn’t scalding. “Drink this.”

Romeo gulped it down.

“Hold some in your mouth,” I said, “to warm your, ah, brain?”

He did. A look of relief washed over his face.

“Don’t choke on it,” I cautioned.

He swallowed it carefully down.

“Better?”

He nodded. “Remind me never to do that again.”

“Will do. Where’s Kamiko?” She and Romeo always seemed to be joined at the hip, but not in the way we all know Romeo liked to join at hips.

“Kamiko has some lab for Biology. I think she said they’re dissecting unicorns today. So, how’s the old Grab-n-Dash treating you, Sam?”

I returned to my seat behind the cash register. “Fantastic,” I said sarcastically.

“Sorry,” he said sympathetically. “Are you at least managing to get some studying done?”

“No. I’m not supposed to. Anyway, it’s usually pretty busy. I doubt I could concentrate.”

“Sam, I know you need the money, because of your parents and all, and I’d totally offer to have you live with me in the dorms, but I wouldn’t want you ruining my reputation. I mean, if people saw a girl sleeping in my room, they’d think I was
straight
,” he said, as if sniffing dirty sweat socks.

I giggled. “Thanks anyway. I’m doing okay. As long as I don’t have any other bad news drop into my lap this quarter, I’ll be fine,” I smiled nervously.

Because, it
was
possible that things could get worse, no matter how unlikely that seemed.

I crossed my fingers and sighed to myself. I sure hoped not. I didn’t think I could handle anything else.

When business started to pick up, Romeo left. I thanked him for keeping me company, but he knew I needed to work.

Despite the frenzy of customers over the remainder of my shift, a sense of loneliness permeated my bones and a growing worry filled my belly. Something was wrong, but I couldn’t put my finger on what it was. I texted Christos, but never received a reply.

When I finished my shift at seven, I called him. But all I received in answer was a text.

Slammed busy at studio. Talk later.

I really,
really
hoped this wasn’t becoming a routine with us.

SAMANTHA

Another week had gone by and nothing had changed. Christos was always busy at his studio. I was always busy at work, or in class, or studying.

I was overwhelmed. I slept poorly and my stress level was pushed to the max. It was starting to mess with my head. I noticed it recently in sculpting class.

It was that stupid Hunter Blakeley.

Not that he was doing anything different. He still hit on me with annoying regularity, but I blew him off with equal frequency. It wasn’t him.

It was the sculpting.
 

Sculpting was some kind of crazy voodoo magic, I’m telling you. Making a sculpture of a naked person standing right in front of you connected you to their body in an intimate way, whether you wanted it to or not. In Life Drawing last quarter, this hadn’t been a problem. One reason was that none of the male models had been hot, other than Christos.

Yes Hunter was hot, but I think sculpting him made my anxiety worse than if I’d been drawing him.

In drawing, you put down charcoal on paper in a visual representation of what you were looking at. Your contact with the two-dimensional drawing surface was through the tip of your pencil.

Sculpting, on the other hand, required that you use your hands and fingers to shape the three-dimensional sculpture. To touch it. Lately, I’d started noticing that weird voodoo magic at work. On me.

The more I worked over my sculpture of Hunter, touching it, massaging it, and caressing the clay into an emulation of Hunter’s musculature, the more it sort of felt like, well…like I was touching Hunter. And I had the eerie feeling
he
somehow felt it. Stupid, I know.

The moment I finally realized this, I had gasped quietly and pulled my fingers away from my sculpture, as if I’d been touching his naked flesh.

I had been about to reshape the inner thigh of Sculpture Hunter’s right leg, right up near his…yes. His package, which hung from my sculpture in a 1/3rd scale representation of his actual…package.
 

You had to include the clay package because if you didn’t, it constantly threw your proportions off. Most of the other students had a little clay blob to represent the man bits, as did I. Romeo, of course, had made his totally lifelike down to every mushroomy detail.

But even with my blobby, nondescript lump hanging between Sculpture Hunter’s legs, there was that final, distinctive moment when I’d felt like I was about to bump the side of my hand into Hunter’s
actual
package as I slid my fingers between the thighs of Sculpture Hunter.

I suddenly stopped myself, feeling like I was about to cheat on Christos somehow. I couldn’t explain it.

Was I
attracted
to Hunter? I shuddered.

No.
 

There was no way.

I took a deep breath and looked around the room at the other students. All were busy working away, their faces intense with concentration.