Unforeseen Developments Part V

Since this is Part V, you might want to read Parts I-IV first...

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When Cam smiled his entire face changed. It began as a leathery, cowboy-squinting-into-the-sun, better not say you like disco face and suddenly transformed into the most affable glad-to-meet-you-come-on-over-for-dinner smile you had ever seen. It was the breadth of the smile that did it. It was, as the saying goes, “from ear to ear.” Jed flinched. He hadn’t expected that blatant signal of joy to leap from this otherwise solemn, intense visage. He tried to smile back, but only managed to look nervous. He felt like his nose was beginning to run and, without thinking, thrust his right hand into his back pocket. Cam flinched, dropping the smile and tensing his entire body. His eyes dropped to where Jed’s hand disappeared behind his back. Jed brought the handkerchief he kept back there to where Cam could see it, half raising it as though he were waving a flag of truce. Cam exhaled and visibly relaxed.

Sherm was on all fours, moving like a giant hairy caterpillar down the chips aisle, head swinging side to side, making strange grunting sounds. Jed tilted his head toward Sherm, raising an eyebrow as if to ask “What the hell?”

Cam smiled again, gave the international sign for what-the-hell: slightly hunching his shoulders. “He loves his work.”

Oh, my, thought Jed, what does that mean? He craned his neck to see what Sherm was up to.

Sherm was now lying belly down on the floor, arms outstretched, hands under the rack… beneath the row of Ruffles. Cam half turned to Jed. “Looks like we got some work to do.”

Cam and Sherm were killers alright. And it was time to clean up this joint.
Cam turned to Jed. “You know why we’re here.” A declaration. Jed was obviously supposed to know.

“Yep,” said Jed. “I think I do.” He nodded, resigned to his fate. No weapon within reach. No one coming to help. Glad Tommy had managed to slip out the back. These two were gonna clean up, alright.

“You got roaches, Jed. We’re here to take care of ‘em.” Of course. Exterminators. Jed had forgotten that he’d called Two Guys’ Pest Management Services just last week. Hadn’t realized these two clowns were the two guys. Geez, I nearly had a heart attack. He pictured Redd Foxx clutching his chest and howling “It’s the big one, Elizabeth!” and grinned.

Jed nodded and reached into his pocket. Cam could hear the keys jingling, and then watched as Jed extracted them and glided toward the door. “I’ll be out back with Tommy,” said Jed as he turned the lock in the door.

Cam shook his head. “We’ll need some boxes, Jed. Gotta clear out all this food. And you’re gonna have to help us. Get Tommy to help, too. It’ll go faster.”

Jed nodded, walked past a jubilant Sherm lying on the floor with a cockroach pinched between his fingers. A smile played at Sherm’s lips. He really was happy. Probably killing the damned thing with his body odor, thought Jed. “Don’t eat that, Sherm. Have a twinkie.”

the end

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'til next time...

Unforeseen Developments Part IV

Since this is Part IV, you might want to read Parts I-III first...

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When Tommy had entered the store this day, he and Jed had said their “heys” and then proceeded to ignore each other. They really were like family. Jed figured that Tommy would talk to him when he was ready. Until then he was welcome to do whatever he needed to do. Since Jed and his wife had never had kids of their own, they had sort of adopted the kids who had worked at the store over the years. Jed’s feelings for his employees had grown since she had passed on. In particular, he felt a fatherly connection to Tommy. He thought about the six or eight other kids who had worked here over the years and continued to frequent it. They’re mostly all grown up now, even Tommy, thought Jed.

He was thinking about Tommy’s melodramatic sense of loss and sadness when he looked up; staring at him over the counter were Sherman’s dead eyes. A short burst of peppermint invaded his senses. He blinked and tried to focus on Sherm.

“What?” he managed to say.

“Nuthin. Just lookin’ around,” answered Sherm. His armpits were sweaty and the stench mixed horribly with the peppermint. “You know.” He gave Jed a knowing look. Jed wrinkled his nose, his hands still below the counter.

“Well, keep lookin’ around.” Jed turned his back on the man and realigned cigarettes and little cigars. He looked at the boxes of rolling papers. Why do I even carry these things? he wondered.

Sherm looked at Jed’s back for a moment, felt his arms tighten, and then slowly moved away and down the nearest aisle, all the while his eyes probing the racks and their contents. Cam waved from the beer coolers. Sherm looked up and Cam gave a quick, short nod.

Well there it is, thought Sherm. The signal. Sherm knew that the day was about to change.

They moved swiftly, with purpose. Cam lightly kicked Tommy’s boots, and when the boy looked up, he tilted his head as if to say “Get out. Go out the back.” Tommy blinked away the last few residual tears and began to slowly rise.

Jed noticed the movement and knew something was going down. He reached under the counter.

Cam saw Jed’s arms disappear below the counter and took four lightning quick steps toward him. He was almost upon him. Jed started, unaware that Cam could move so fast. He felt a little like a kid caught with his hands in the cookie jar. Geez, he thought. Jed smiled, raised his hands up to waist level. In one hand was a pack of Juicy Fruit gum. He put it in his pocket. He saw over Cam’s shoulder that Sherm was lowering himself to the floor. Tommy was disappearing into the back. Jed raised an eyebrow. Cam smiled back at him.

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'til next time...

Unforeseen Developments Part III

Since this is Part III, you might want to read Parts I and II below...

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Sitting on the floor in front of the beer cooler, hidden from the old man’s sight, was a very unhappy boy with shoulder-length blonde hair and a raging case of “I Lost My Girlfriend” written all over his face. A dirty, tan Reef hat was perched askew on his head, straight-billed. His faded, appropriately tattered jeans stretched out in front of him, work boot-clad toes tapping together to an unheard song. His ears were stuffed with headphone buds, and Cam could hear loud music seeping out. Cam was tempted to kick the kid’s worn out boots and say something about the three empty cans next to him on the floor and the half empty one perched on his lips and slowly draining into his gullet. But he didn’t. The boy’s eyes were closed as he savored the suds, tears coursing down his face. He opened his eyes, lazily and disconnectedly taking in Cam, who just smiled his best “I Ain’t Telling Nobody” smile and stepped over his legs. The kid finished the beer and placed it neatly in line next to the other empties. He tried to smile and cracked the tab on another as Cam looked back over his shoulder at him. Pathetic, thought Cam. But in the same instant, Been there, done that. Have another one… for me. Cam turned his attention to the tiny shadow scuttling beneath the line of bags of pork rinds.

Sherm was moving slowly past the old man at the register now. His peppermint breath was wafting about him and occupying space in the store. It was a tangible thing. If it were any more tangible it would rumble like a tank through the store, crashing through the coolers and into the back storeroom, through the cement wall at the back of the building and into the rear parking lot. It would roll past the broken-down pickup with no tires, crash through the chain link fence, and take out a few cars screaming past on Rte. 32. But it wasn’t quite that tangible. Seemed like it; but wasn’t. Everywhere Sherm went he trailed that cloud of peppermint breath. His hands were gently swaying as he moved. Sherm’s big head was swiveling in slow motion, taking in the store and acknowledging Cam, who was looking down at something on the floor. Sherm looked up and took in the ceiling and the sprinkler system, the speakers, and the Exit sign. He scanned the racks the way Cam did, looking for something, discerning between what he thought was acceptable and what he thought was not. The two of them gave off a hint of the movie critic – watching the same thing you’re watching, yet somehow taking in more, using more filters and knowledge. Seeing the same thing, yet not the same thing, you are seeing.

Jed Cantrow, the old man behind the counter, thought that things were beginning to feel a little eerie. His eyes moved from Sherm to Cam and back to Sherm. He thought he recognized these two, but he wasn't sure. He wrinkled his bulbous nose. He hitched his shoulders a bit. He continued to keep his hands below the counter. Jed had owned this little convenience store for as long as anyone in town could remember. When his wife passed in ’83, it was all he had left in the world. No kids, no relatives to speak of, just this little store and his steady customers. He loved it with all his heart. He painstakingly stocked each and every item on its shelves, rearranged the magazines when the zit-faced kids were done messing with them, replenished the little pencils and lottery sheets when they needed replenishing, and lovingly kept the milk and beer cooler stock rotated and full.

Right now, he knew Tommy Bernhardt was back there crying into a six-pack of beer. He had known Tommy since he was a baby. Heck, Tommy had worked here for a year and a half, while he was finishing his GED. Geez, thought Jed, he was working here when he first met Carla. Tommy was 22 years old now, but looked 16. He and Carla had been what passed for “an item” in this town for the last three years. Jed had heard that Tommy was trying unsuccessfully to get over the girl. Had been for two solid weeks. She had dumped him... again. This time “for good.” When Tommy had entered the store a half-hour ago, his eyes told Jed that he and Carla had had another of their now famous fights. They were always breaking up and getting back together. It was tiring to almost everyone around them, but seemed to add some sort of energy that their relationship was otherwise lacking. Every once in a while Carla would getting really pissed and Tommy would show up here to drink beer and lick his wounds. Later in the evening he would crawl back to her, say whatever it was she wanted to hear, and they would make up.

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'til next time...

Unforeseen Developments Part II

Since this is Part II, you might want to read Part I, below, first...

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Cam was at the front door before Sherm had even opened his car door. He was smiling like they were expecting him.

Inside, the air was thick with classic rock. Foghat’s “Slow Ride” swirled around the store, pouring in from the speakers mounted in the corners. Cam nodded to an old woman who was plucking her bag from the counter and making her way past him toward the door. She nodded back, jamming a handful of M&Ms into her mouth and smiling while she reached for the door. To the left, past the rack of car and adult magazines, were a pinball machine, an ATM, and a lottery kiosk against the wall, silent sentinels to impersonal entertainment and service and chance. Twelve-year-old Skip Mays was finishing up a game of Lord of the Rings pinball. The Balrog was growling his victory and Skip’s chin was already hitting his chest as he turned to leave. He looked up at Cam and quickened his pace, almost slamming directly into Sherm’s belly in his haste to exit the store.

Straight back at the center were the coolers filled with milk, soda, and beer. Running down the center were three rows of racks that offered the discerning consumer all manner of breads and cereal, snacks and candy, and an impressive assortment of chips.

Cam wrinkled his nose, pushed into the center of the store and slowly turned, taking in every detail. Three rows of smaller racks extended from each side of the center racks at 45 degree angles. These were home to canned goods, toiletries, cleaning products, and household items. He took it all in with a discerning eye. He glanced back toward the center, then down, studying a row of chips. Down low, way down, almost a floor level, he thought he caught a glimpse of an antenna, a flick of a stray leg, a glint of light off a tiny hard shell. Then it was gone. He grinned. He then continued to survey his surroundings, taking in cans of STP, shoelaces, toilet paper, Hormel chili, and Brillo pads. He surveyed the gums and mints and chocolate bars. Again he spied a tiny flash of movement, down below the Heath bars and the Hershey’s with Almonds.

When Sherm entered a heartbeat later, looking back at the scuffling Skip and giggling creepily to himself, the elderly gentleman behind the counter imperceptibly winced. He moved closer to the counter, ran his fingers through his hair, and then let his arms drop below the height of the counter. The music went up a notch. Enough to make anyone paying attention think that this was the sole reason his hands had dropped below the counter. Cam paid attention. He assumed two things: he had a firearm back there and that Sherm vibrated whatever it is that causes people to go on high alert. He’d seen it a million times. People would discreetly move between Sherm and their children, almost without thinking. They would watch him and then turn their heads ever so slightly when he raised his eyes to them. They would cross the street a step or two early to avoid coming too close to him. It was a familiar scene to Cam. Sherm gave folks the willies. Hell, sometimes Sherm gave Cam the willies, and he’d known Sherm most of his life. Sherm’s oversized and clublike hands hung limply by his sides as he stood and took in the store. He was giving off the Don’t Fuck With Me vibe. Cam drifted back toward the beer cooler, quietly watching the old man and Sherm while surveying the lower reaches of the racks.

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'til next time...

Unforeseen Developments Part I

The following is an excerpt from a story called "Unforeseen Developments":

They were both killers. They looked like killers. They moved like killers. They gave off a killer vibe.

Sherman’s long stringy greasy hair always found its way into his eyes. His doughy shoulders, fists like hams, and slow, loping stride emanated slack. He moved like a patient recovering from a stroke. His breath always smelled of peppermint. Known as Sherm to his friends, or what passed for friends, he was dead quiet until a subject he either knew something about or was passionate about was broached. Which was hardly ever. He had an uncomfortable smile, as if his face didn’t want or was unable to turn that way, and a simmering confidence. He moved like a man who knew what he wanted and was taking his sweet, awkward time getting to it.

Cameron, or Cam, was about the same size as Sherm, but he was a much slimmer and quicker man. That is to say, his average movement was quicker. The fact of the matter was that Sherm was very quick when he wanted to be. He just rarely wanted to be. You could be talking to him one minute, turn to eye your cup and pick up your coffee, and he’d suddenly be across the room, halfway through the crossword puzzle, eyes glazing over from extended concentration. His face had a funny tic that disconcerted anyone who didn’t know him and drove those who did to the brink of slapping him. Except that no one ever dared slap him. His hands were warring nations, constantly at odds over any task he performed. The problem was that he was ambidextrous, so there was never any resolution. He smelled of meat and cheese and moved in a funny, herky-jerky way, as though he was trapped in a body that was not originally his own. In short, Cam was a bit creepy. Even to himself. More than one person could say they had seen him visibly shake himself, as though he’d thought of something totally out there and was trying to launch it from his body.

Cameron and Sherman shared a low, dark, dingy house out on Rte. 32 not far from the county landfill, as well as two old dogs – Jasper, a decrepit bloodhound and Mikah, a sour, irascible, limping German Shepherd – a shit brown ’77 Chevy Impala, and a penchant for shooting rats at said landfill. The Impala was dull and faded, with rust discoloration in pock marks everywhere. To describe it one must say that the brown was merely the dominant color for now; soon enough the rust would gain a majority and vote the brown out of office. It was loud inside the car and only the AM stations worked on the radio. They either listened to the local station when Car Talk was on or they kept it off. The heat and AC worked fine; that and the fact that it ran like a champ were all they cared about. Looks could be deceiving and they knew that better than most people. Most folks had no idea that inside these two caricatures of backwoods beatdown life beat the hearts of two very enterprising men.

The first time they drove by the Fast Way Mart in Hardwick, both men glanced over, glanced at each other, and grinned. “That’d be it,” murmured Cam. Three cars at the island pumps, an old man walking out with a carton of milk and a pack of smokes, lighting up as he approached his car parked at the first pump, and a skinny kid with acne leaning against the bricks near the pay phone. Sherm slowly steered the Impala around the building. The sky was that pale blue that made you love it as a kid, full of hope and promise; it was dotted with small puffs of cloud as far as you could see. Like their ride, you would have to say that the blue was merely the dominant color for now. Rain was in the forecast and, unlike most parts of the country, the weatherman was usually right around here. The car putt-putted in at an angle at the side of the building, near the last remaining phone booth in the county and a bright green, freshly painted Dumpster.


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'til next time...