2
Lost in the Supermarket
==========DANNY===========
After tugging back the handle on the front door of the grocery store, a pair of glass doors grumbled open in front of me. The sensor beeped. Not quite the stealth entrance I had in mind, but I was already there and walking in like a stalker.
Standing at the door, staring out at the five aisles that made up the entire store and trying to decide which one would keep me best undetected, I heard two voices bickering from the back. Scooting down the aisle closest to the bakery section, silently landing my feet as I took careful steps, the voices grew louder, but not much clearer. Then, while reading the labels on the shelf, getting myself into the character of a curious shopper, one of the voices shouted. I snapped upright. My leg drew back, sliding my foot across the ground. The floor squeaked as I stunted my step. My position was given away.
Maybe this is totally a bad idea, I came to realize. I've totally intruded on something personal.
Suddenly feeling incredibly stupid, I resumed my role of scanning the shelves, looking for something to buy to justify my spying. Despite looking stale, the aroma of bread made my stomach growl. Truly, I would've been the world's worst spy. I got mad at myself.
A voice then boomed. It sounded like a girl's. I stopped. Then things got quiet again. There was only more grumbling from behind the tarp that divided the storage room from the rest of the store, and grumbling from my stomach. A clock on the wall was ticking. And so did mine.
Rockstar was playing air-guitar with the squeegee, and then, in a dramatic Townshend-like exit, smashed the squeegee against the ground and left it there. I had to get back to work, fast.
Declaring to myself that this was pointless—I didn't know these people—and that at any second I was going to get in mega trouble with Miller, I spun around, thoughtless to how loud my feet squeaked, and ran to the front of the store.
But right as I made it to the end of the aisle, someone hollered:
"TANNER LEAVE!"
Off the shelf beside me, I snatched a loaf of bagels and took a giant, casual lunge to the checkout line. Then crossing my hands behind my back, I curled my lips in a failed attempt to whistle. God, what goes through my head?
With a forceful whoosh, I heard the tarp bash forward. I jerked my head down the aisle. The driver of the black Chevy was stomping directly toward me. Then suddenly, spinning around, he shouted back towards the direction of the vinyl tarp waving in place.
"Whatever! It's your life, you stupid bitch!"
Just beyond the sideway bill of his baseball hat, I saw a hand swipe back the tarp, and once more heard the girl scream for him to leave. The Chevy driver spun around again, walking backwards towards me, and screamed in response, calling her a dumb bitch this time.
Absorbed by the action, I had hardly noticed that he and I were on an inevitable collision course. And in the second it took to realize that—and in the half second I had to react—it was too late.
We crashed. And upon recoil made direct, dead on, eye contact. Anticipating a fist to the face, I flinched as his arm swung out—quickly thought of Rob—but then was surprised when his hand landed not on my nose, but on his own shoulder exposed in a baggy Devils Jersey. He snarled, cursed, and then charged past me. Making sure to smack every pack of gum off the racks on his way out. The sliding doors closed behind him. The sensor beeped.
That could've been bad, I thought, while rubbing my own shoulder that pleasantly did not appear to be fractured or dislocated or something. I flexed to shrink the throbbing.
Slight Shot
Head Shot
High Speed / Collision
I attempted to make some rhyme out of the scenario as I collected the last of the scattered gum packages off the floor, and then slotted them in their spots back above the celebrity tabloid magazines on the display rack.
At this point, I felt stupidly out of place. I knew I was going to get in trouble for ditching work, and I felt exposed. Like I had made an enemy. I didn't know what I was; I had tried pretending I was something. I thought of a bunch of things I could've been: a superhero in hiding, an Australian exchange student, stoned like Max, unaware and out of his senses. Maybe I'd caught some of his second-hand smoke? But nothing plausible came to me. I looked to my feet for the answer, which didn't help. All I could pay attention to was how the leather toes of my workboots were carved down like a rash. My mind blanked of lyrics—how could I blank of lyrics? I was always thinking of lyrics.
But when I looked up on the sound of the tarp flopping, lyrics didn't seem to matter anymore.
Actually, nothing really seemed to matter when the whole world apparently stopped so the sexiest brunette that I had ever seen could strut on through from behind the tarp.
Her every stride swung in slow motion. The way she wrapped her honey-dipped hair in a ponytail, a complete act of seduction. The sway and rocking of her hips, a more than polite introduction.
God Damn, I can sure rhyme, and curves will kill you if you're not careful.
When my too dry lips peeled apart, I realized I had become that guy. Totally forgetting that this amazingly hot girl was just involved in a shouting match about ten seconds prior to my being captivated by her hotness. Reality refilled when she stepped behind the register counter and let out a huge sigh.
I plopped the bagels horizontally on the white countertop. She kept on fixing her hair. I glanced down at the bagels, then glanced back at her, still fixing her hair. I wasn't sure if I should keep waiting until she stepped out of her bubble, or if I should say something, but clearly she knew someone was standing there, so....
"Are you okay?" I blurted.
"Uh. Yeah?" she said, looking down, still trying to make her hair work. "You heard that? Well, duh, of course you heard that. I shouted. We shouted. He shouted. My boyfriend shouted. Um, I mean, God, my, uh, ex-boyfriend, a douchebag who's not important anymore, shouted."
"Oh."
When it appeared as though she had mastered whatever variation of ponytail she was aiming for, she grabbed a red apron wrapped in a messy bundle off the counter and tied it below her plush chest, emphasizing the obvious arch from her stomach to breasts.
Though it wasn't until she finally looked up at me, making awkward customer service eye contact, and I saw how her silver nose-ring gleamed in the light, that I realized this girl wasn't hot.
My God, she was fucking gorgeous.
==========MARY==========
I stormed straight for the storage room. I knew exactly why Tanner had showed up. A stroke of brilliance must have forged somewhere in the silly-putty sufficing for his gray matter that, for literally the millionth time, like a door-to-door Jehovah's Witness, he would try to convince me that I needed him in my life. Eff that shit. I've done everything without even God so far, so why in the name of life would I need Tanner?
I made a fist and bashed back the tarp, and then as it flushed behind me, I heard Tanner bash through it, and without any shame in his game, follow me into the storage room squawking.
"Can you stop PMSing and just talk to me?"
(Because, you know, telling a girl to stop PMSing is a fabulous way to make her talk to you, right? Seriously, guys, go out and try it. That shit works, like, legit.)
"What do you want?" I shouted in his face, my voice echoing.
I felt the eyes of the non-English-speaking kitchen staff fall on us. All was silent. Then one brave soul split open a head of iceberg lettuce with a knife, and the insistent tack of dicing vegetables resumed.
"Seriously, Tanner," I yelled at the top of my whisper. "You cannot do this here!"
"If you wouldn't lob me every single time I tried figuring shit out with you, I wouldn't have to!"
I couldn't help but notice his gross blonde goatee flicker when he spoke.
And then, just as I thought of how easy it would be to snatch the knife out of José's hand if he took one step closer, Tanner grabbed my wrist. When I yanked back, my body twisted and my eyes fell on Nenita, one of the Hispanic, non-English-speaking kitchen staff in the midst of an iceberg lettuce chop, just staring at us. Eff off, Nenita.
Only Jehovah can judge me.
Before he opened his mouth again, I cut him off.
"Tanner, I am not kidding! I need this job. You can not and will not do this while I'm working!"
His mouth hung open like an idiot. I strongly resisted the temptation to punch him.
"This shit job? What, you're making minimum wage—"
And that's when I yelled at the top of my cigarette-tar black lungs for him to leave. Somehow he got the hint, and bolted from the storage room.
"Whatever!" he yelled as he pushed through the tarp. "It's your life, you stupid bitch!"
Thanks Tanner. Thanks for calling me a stupid bitch.
Supervising his exit, I yanked back the tarp right as he persisted in calling me a "dumb bitch," and then, a split-second later, watched him crash directly into a customer. Tanner then proceeded to smack every single pack of gum off the shelf before bolting out the door. I was going to puke.
White-Girl-With-Emotional-Baggage lures Douchebag Ex-Boyfriend in a 2006 Chevrolet Impala into dinky old Wright Bros to start a yelling match, vandalize the place, and practically beat up a customer? Great. I thought for sure I'd now have to go straight to Ashley's to print off resumes and start handing that shit out like herpes.
My body tensed with anxiety. The crawling nervousness, the pounding head, the runny pits; I needed Advil. And just as I thought things couldn't get worse, I felt something brush my shoulder and lightly tap the floor. My elastic had fallen out.
I was going to lose it.
"Okay, Mary, pick yourself up," I whispered soundlessly to myself as I forced every fiber in my body to bend over and scoop that stupid elastic up off the floor. I then wedged my hair into a side-ponytail (a decision made for practicality rather than the previous over-complicated braid choice) before walking over to my till. I heard the 2006 Chevrolet Impala squeal and burn away outside.
"Are you okay?" the broken-armed customer asked.
"Uh, yeah?" I winced, tugging too tightly on my hair. "You heard that? Well duh. Of course you heard that. I shouted. We shouted. He shouted. My boyfriend shouted. Um, I mean, God, my, uh, ex-boyfriend, a douchebag who's not important anymore, shouted."
"Oh," he uttered.
My fingers ached for that unfinished cigarette. With my eyes down on the bagels lying across the counter (and suddenly displeased with my dry knuckles as I went to grab them), I noticed that the gum packages were magically no longer on the floor. Sucker saved me the effort of cleaning. I grabbed the scanner thingy off its stand thingy, and then, as I scanned the loaf of bagels, I connected the dots.
First I recognized him by the rich tan of his arm, and then, as my eyes shot up, it was confirmed by the bangs fanned over his forehead that he was the Squeegee Boy from next door.
"Is this all?" I asked, The Bitch Voice slipping out.
"Yeah."
$4.32, including tax, calculated on the screen.
"I work next door."
"I know," I blurted.
"You know?"
"Well, like. Uh."
"Oh."
I resisted saying I recognized him squeegeeing. Because I know if someone said to me, "I saw you squeegeeing," I'd feel really gay. The poor kid probably didn't need any more homosexual accusations.
"I'm Danny," he said and held his hand out.
My hand, carrying the corpse of nicotine, reached for his. I practically pinched his fingers and pulled away. Yes, I self-declare that that was the world's wimpiest handshake. My feminist membership card was surely going to be revoked for that girly shit.
"Your total is four thirty-two."
"Keep the change," he said, flicking his fingers. My eyelids fluttered as if I were epileptic.
Trash, I thought, sliding the change into the tip jar, each coin pelting the glass as they fell one by one. I caught an inhalation of my own greasy smoke.
"Thanks, Mary," he said. I stared up at him, probably with an accidental Bitch Face. "Your nametag," he quickly added.
"I totally didn't introduce myself."
"No!" his voice cracked. He covered his mouth. "No," he repeated, "that's okay. I can read."
Forcing a smile, I said, "I'm Mary," and wondered if my teeth looked yellow.
"I know."
"Nametag. Right." I felt stupid. "Okay, bye, D— uhh..."
"Danny."
"Danny," I repeated.
"It's okay. I don't have a nametag."
"Bye, Danny."
"Bye, Mary."
He almost forgot to take his bagels, but then spun around at the last second to grab them before running out of the store.
DANNY
"Is this all?" she asked, snapping me out of my daze.
"Yeah," I answered.
She scanned the barcode of the bagels.
"I work next door," I said, and must have thought that was a really interesting thing to tell this girl with a nose-ring.
"I know."
"You know?"
She started mumbling, "Well, like, uh," and then pushed her cheeks out in an unsure smile.
"Oh."
My incredibly small window of talking to this girl was almost closed. So I quickly eyed the racks of replaced gum—which she had yet to comment on—and floss and stuff to see if there was anything I could tack onto my order. But there wasn't.
"I'm Danny." I held my hand out, hoping that, somehow, it would lead me to a world of apron-less breasts or, at the very least, that conversation somewhere.
"Hi, Danny."
She shook my hand for a millisecond, as though she were morally obligated to because she was at work.
The antiqued green-digits-on-a-black-screen calculated the bagel's numerical value.
"Your total's four thirty-two," she recited.
I reached into my left, then my right pocket, and found a five-dollar bill to hand her.
The cash register sprang open. And as Mary's hand fled to tally up the amount of change, thinking that my indifference to pennies would impress her, I told her to keep it. She frowned. Then with the dirtiest look on her face said, "Oh, okay?" and I concluded that no matter what brilliant act of suaveness I produced, she would not be impressed. While wondering why all pretty girls, every single last damn one of 'em, had to be stamped with an attitude, I noticed that, from out of her trembling fingertips, from which the coins dropped into the tip-jar, how chipped her black nails were.
Then to get rid of me, she said, "Have a nice day," through a forced smile.
Whatever, I thought. She's just some girl.
"Thanks, Mary."
Chk—Chk—BANG!
She could not have looked more unimpressed. I think I (accidentally) creeped her out.
"Your—name tag," I quickly said, redeeming my potential stalker status.
"I totally didn't introduce myself," she said.
"No, that's okay. I can read," I said, making her laugh.
"I'm Mary."
"I know."
"Name tag. Right," she said, sort of remorsefully. "Okay, bye, D— uhh...."
"Danny."
"Danny," she repeated.
"It's okay. I don't have a nametag."
"Bye, Danny," Mary said, rolling her eyes.
I took a few steps towards the door, and then turned around to catch her goodbye smile. The crescents in her cheeks detonated an atomic bomb, blowing me apart.
I started to get the hell out of there, realized I had forgotten the bagels, ran back to the till, and then got the hell out of there.
The atomic radiation set my nerves on fire as I walked back over to the carwash, swinging the bag of what I had only realized later were sesame-seed bagels. Picking up the squeegee and returning it inside made me inexplicably jittery; clearly that atomic radiation was doing a real number on me because I was glad to be back at work.
I peered down into the long garage. There was still no one in sight.
What were they doing all day, was the real question to ask Miller. I shifted through the long shotgun tunnel, alongside the droning carwash machinery, towards Rob's office. I knocked on the door. Miller opened it only so slightly enough to tell me that I could take off for the day. Sweet.
After grabbing my bag off the hooks, I went around back and saw Max. Leaning up on one leg against the cinderblock wall, and sporting a pair of yellow, dollar-store bought Ray-Bans.
"Danny-O!" he sung.
It took me a second to clue in, but Max had a cigarette tucked in the center of his lips.
"Dude—you're smoking cigarettes now too?"
Max tried answering with the smoke in his mouth, but just ended up dropping it from his lips and chasing it as it rolled along the pavement.
After successfully capturing his rolling smoke, Max asked, "You ready to go to the show?" and poked the cigarette back in.
I knew what being "ready to go" meant. I looked over at Rob's silver Porsche stuffed amongst all the other cars in the parking lot. A speckled white light reflected on the hood, and the windshield beamed back a green mirage from the trees.
"Did Miller let you off too?" I asked, squinting in the yellow light of the late afternoon sun. My skin shivered in the heat.
"Yeah, man. They said I could take off. We're taking Rob's car. Obviously?"
In all actuality, there was nothing divine about having Rob's car. I was just supposed to clean it. I even suggested to Rob that he just leave his car in the parking lot. But Rob was under this impression that if he left his prized possession with the detail garage guys, his car would explode or something. Though the irony was that we had countless luxury cars, far more exquisite and expensive than Rob's, in Superior's care all throughout the summer. But out of all the staff, Rob trusted me most. So by then, the margin of time had vanished. The day was at a standstill and I had to make a choice: was I to take Rob's car, or not? I knew I shouldn't. Every voice of reason and logic—and the fear of Karma—told me not to. But then again, how much longer did I have to be stupid and seventeen? Not very much longer.
"Of course, we are," I said.
"Suh-weet!"
And that was it. The words were spoken and the seal had been shut. T's were crossed and I's dotted. The contract was forged. There was no going back now. I prided myself on being a man of my word—though I wasn't sure if at seventeen you were technically a man, but boy sounds condescending—and Rob never told me: Don't take my car out with your idiot friend Max. So, I had no other word but the one I gave Max to go back on.
With a shaking nervousness and the hollow folding-in of my stomach, I felt the thrill of breaking the rules. With every passing second, the shaking foreboding eases, and then the wild one can relax into the thrall of his criminality. We were stealing a car, baby.
=========Author's Note===========
Thank you for reading this chapter of "Some Place Better Than Here"!
Writing this book certainly wasn't easy by any means. It was an honest-to-God from the bottom of my heart labour of love. And so, if the writing has touched you in anyway, please share your thoughts in the comments or vote on a chapter that you particularly liked!
Sharing a little bit of love back really helps me grow my platform as a writer so I can continue to publish great works for you and I both to enjoy !
Also, if you enjoyed SPBTH please check out my latest project "The Roar of Andora," a explorative fantasy that will be told over a three-part anthology.
https://www.wattpad.com/611263651-the-roar-of-andora-book-one-prologue-the-boy-king
Thank you for reading "Some Place Better Than Here"!
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