Grey Areas

by Brad Carl

  "There's only one thing you can control in this world, son," his father had told him when he graduated from high school. "You. You have total control over your emotions, your words, your actions. You can't stop someone from wronging you, but you have complete control over how you react, or whether you even react at all."

  His father was the glue that held the family together. He always had advice for his two sons but never forced anything on them. Sports, camping, hunting, fishing, Boy Scouts; he was close to both of them. And he treated their mother with the respect a woman deserved and needed, helping to keep her sane while raising two boys. There was little doubt she would've preferred a daughter in the mix. She never said a word about it to her sons, but their father more than likely knew. It was as if he always knew exactly what everyone in the house was thinking and feeling at any given moment.

  Henry dozed off for the night thinking about how much he missed his father and how he wished he could speak to him now.

  II

  Henry pulled up to the Corner Store at five forty-five the next morning. He wasn't surprised Bruce had yet to arrive. Henry had left plenty early knowing that being late on his first day would not have made a good impression. Five minutes later, Bruce pulled in with his Ford Explorer.

  "Here's your copy of the key to this joint," he told Henry as he handed him a key ring with one key on it. "We didn't talk much about a schedule, but it's just you and me splitting this thing up until I get a part-timer to help out."

  "Not a problem," Henry replied.

  "It means no days off, you know?" Bruce said with a cringe.

  "I don't mind. I can use the money."

  Henry's boss exhaled. "Whew, I didn't think about it until I went home last night. Thought you might be pissed. The weekends will be some good overtime for you."

  Bruce showed Henry how to use the cash register, credit card machine, and gas pumps. By the time Henry felt comfortable, it was six fifteen and customers were already filing in. Some came for gas, but most were there for a morning cup of coffee or a bag of prepackaged donuts. Bruce explained that the Corner Store was more of a mini-grocery store than a convenience store. They didn't carry any ready-made, warm food like hot dogs, taquitos, or nachos. If customers wanted something like that they could go across the street to Stubby's. They also opened at six and provided sit-down breakfasts as well as to-go style foods like breakfast burritos.

  "It's a small town thing," Bruce said, summing up his explanation. "Stubby's was in Gable long before this gas station added a food section."

  "Stubby still around?" Henry inquired.

  "His wife is, but Stubby died about six or seven years ago."

  "I assume 'Stubby' wasn't his real name," Henry surmised. He handed a male customer his change for a bottle of water and a small cup of coffee. The customer stopped and turned to Bruce when he overheard Henry.

  "I always wondered, what was Stubby's real name?" the customer asked with a smile.

  "Rodney was his birth name, and how he got the nickname is kind of inspiring," Bruce began. "Everyone knew him as 'Rodney' or 'Rod' up until when he was about twenty years old and he had an accident. He was a farmer's son, and one day he got his hand caught in a clogged corn picker. Lost the four fingers on his right hand at the first joint."

  "This part of the story I've heard," the customer said to Henry while walking towards the door. "It's a good one, though, so keep listening. I'll see you tomorrow!" The man waved and jogged to his car.

  "So anyway, Stubby—Rodney—didn't let the missing fingers hold him back much. He had such a sense of humor about it he began referring to his hand as 'old stubby.' That's kind of what the hand looked like with those half-sized fingers: a stub."

  "So, the name just stuck?"

  "Pretty much," Bruce said. "He told me what happened was one time, someone misunderstood him. They thought he was referring to himself instead of his hand. Which is funny because Stubby always weighed about one sixty soaking wet."

  "Not a big guy, eh?" Henry asked.

  "Not short, but not fat either. It just goes to show how most people never gave it a second thought. Many of them weren't around here forty years ago when the accident happened. They didn't even realize Stubby had a handicap because he never let it affect him. Once the nickname stuck, I think he stopped referring to his hand at all. It just became a part of him. Which is ironic since he also lost a part of him."

  "Good point," Henry said. "Good story, too."

  "One hundred percent authentic," Bruce replied. He grabbed his keys and changed the subject, lowering his voice even though no one else was in the store.

  "A couple more things before I take off for a while," Bruce began. He moved to the back corner behind the register and reached under the counter. "The silent alarm is set and turned off back here. You might've noticed when we came in, there was no noise. I came back here and turned it off while we were opening. The code is 1221. Don't forget to turn it off when you open this place. Otherwise you'll have an army of trigger-happy, small town law enforcement pointing their guns at you in no time flat. You've got sixty seconds before that silent alarm is triggered."

  "Got it," Henry replied with a soft chuckle.

  "And speaking of guns," Bruce continued, "I've got this here, too, though I've never had to use it."

  He reached under the counter beneath the cash register and pulled out a SIG Pro semi-automatic pistol. He turned to Henry.

  "You ever used one of these before, Hank?"

  "Probably not one like this," Henry replied, taking the gun from Bruce.

  "Just pull the trigger...and don't miss," Bruce instructed, taking the gun and placing it back in its hiding spot.

  "I can handle that," Henry said, though he couldn't imagine getting held up in a town this small. Bruce headed to the door.

  "I'll be back a bit later to let you grab some lunch while I watch the register," he said. "If you have any questions just call my cell. The number is right behind you on the board."

  "Got it," Henry said.

  The day flew by more quickly than Henry had expected. Idle chatter with customers kept his mind busy. When the store emptied out, he wandered over to the radio on the shelf behind the counter. He went up and down the dial and finally settled on a classic rock station that was playing a Journey song.

  Around ten o'clock a uniformed police officer walked into the store. Henry nodded to him as he entered but wasn't certain the officer had returned the greeting, which seemed strange.

  Maybe he didn't see me, Henry thought. The police officer shuffled around the store for a minute or so. Henry tried not to stare, but he couldn't help notice the officer looking his way several times.

  What is he doing? Henry wondered. Worse yet, what had Henry done to warrant this attention? He’d been in town for less than twenty-four hours. Had he done something wrong? Was there a problem with his license plate, maybe?

  Finally, the officer headed over to the beverage counter and poured a cup of coffee. He emptied two sugars in the cup and secured the lid. On his way to the register he grabbed a fruit pie off a stand. Whatever Henry had done, he was about to find out.

  The officer placed his coffee and pie on the counter and began to reach for his wallet. There was a moment, only a split second, where Henry thought he might be reaching for his gun.

  "You're new?" the officer asked. His name tag was shining so bright Henry had to squint to read it: JACKSON.

  "Yes, I am," Henry responded, reaching for the fruit pie to scan it. "Henry Fields," he said, extending his right hand across the counter. Jackson returned the gesture with a quick shake. Henry also noticed "Sergeant" engraved on his badge.

  "John Jackson, Gable Police," he responded. It sounded to Henry like Jackson had spent a lot of time practicing the inflection of that phrase. "When I first walked in I thought you were somebody else," Jackson continued.

  Henry's heart sunk to the tips of his toes.

  "But then I remembered that guy w
as six nine. I played basketball against him in high school."

  Henry recovered, realizing he had been on high alert for no reason. It was a ridiculous notion anyway, he thought.

  Henry chuckled out loud at the thought of playing basketball in high school. Or being six foot nine. Sergeant John Jackson was around forty years old, average height, with a burly build. He had a full head of hair and big, piercing brown eyes. As the policeman left the store with a quick, "see you tomorrow," Henry tried to imagine Jackson playing basketball. The only thing he could come up with was the image of Jackson getting his shot blocked by a giant doppelgänger of Henry.

  Around eleven o'clock Bruce returned to give Henry a lunch break. After a quick question and answer session about some job specifics, Henry walked across the street to Stubby's for a meal. As he approached, he saw Claire standing outside the restaurant, smoking a cigarette and drinking a Coke.

  "What's up, Mystery Man?" she called out to him.

  "First day of work," he pointed with his thumb over his shoulder.

  "Pumping some gas, printing some lottery tickets," Claire joked, taking a drag of her smoke.

  "No gas pumping. I can't even remember the days of full-service stations," Henry shot back.

  "That one used to be full-service," she pointed with her cigarette.

  "I figured as much." At that moment Henry's stomach gave him a friendly reminder in the form of a growl. "I'm gonna head in for some food," he said. "I didn't have breakfast."

  "Grab a menu and I'll be right in to take care of you," Claire said with a smile.

  Henry walked through the door and sat down at the same table as the day before, all the while wondering if Claire had just hit on him.

  #

  Claire chatted with Henry for a moment each time she brought something to his table. Eventually the subject of Chum came up again. Henry told Claire about meeting his new landlord for the first time and moving in to his farmhouse.

  "Chum's quite a character, isn't he?" Claire asked while refilling Henry's water. "Almost too much to deal with, at times."

  "He definitely has moxie," Henry agreed. "Seems manageable, though."

  "Just wait until you meet his main sales guy, Eddie. Now that guy is a real piece of work," Claire explained.

  "Lots of personality around here for such a small town," Henry observed. They exchanged smiles as she left for another table.

  He didn't mind making a new female friend, or any friend for that matter. The stimulation was good for him. Henry just wasn't sure he wanted things to go any further with Claire than they already had. She seemed genuinely interested in him, but he also knew this was the result of a pretty girl living in a small town her entire life. She was too close to the people in Gable, knew them all too well. A new guy moving to town was something fresh in her mundane life of waiting tables and hearing the same jokes over and over again. Claire now had something to look forward to and explore. Henry knew he was making himself even more appealing to her with his elusiveness. But the alternative was to get Claire to talk more about herself, and he was aware this would have the same effect. It was human nature.

  He watched her as she dealt with others in the diner. It didn't matter who she was talking with, she always seemed sincere. There were no crossed arms, no steps backward. She was always leaning into conversations and attentive to her surroundings. No one waited long for a refill or extra napkins. She kept things moving. He figured some of this was the process of working for tips, but there was little doubt waiting tables for a living was not for everyone. Henry had never done it and was certain he never could. Working the register at a gas station was about the best he could do when it came to customer service. It wasn't that he didn't like people. In fact, the problem was he knew and understood people too well. No, Henry liked people. He found them intriguing. That is until they let him down or crossed him. He found it hard to forgive and forget. Fool me once, shame on you because I'm done, he thought to himself.

  As he finished his club sandwich and side salad, Claire dropped the check on his table.

  "Here you go," she said. "And there's no need to leave me a tip today."

  Henry glanced up at her with a confused look. Before he had a chance to reply, Claire spoke again.

  "The eight dollars you left for me yesterday will cover today's service, too," she explained.

  "I didn't have any change," Henry countered with a wry grin.

  "I did," Claire said, shaking her head and folding her arms across her chest.

  "Your prompt service and conversation were worth extra money to me," he said with a shrug. He knew she was angling at something, but he wasn't sure what it was.

  "I appreciate you saying that," she said. "It's not every day someone drops a seventy percent tip on my table. But I prefer keeping things legit. Working here is an honest living and anything more than twenty-five percent feels like a bribe."

  Interesting, Henry thought. He considered continuing to make light of things but could tell Claire was dead serious.

  "Fair enough," he said. There was only one thing he could think of that anyone would bribe her for, and that just wasn't something Henry would ever do. But he also knew Claire couldn't be sure of this. Especially when he wasn't willing to tell her much about himself.

  As Claire walked back to the kitchen to get another customer his lunch, Henry pulled his wallet from his pocket. He had made some change earlier at the Corner Store and would be able to pay for his lunch in the exact amount of the check. Henry liked Claire, but even before her dignity speech he’d had no intention of leaving her eight dollar tips for the rest of whatever. He couldn't afford it. Especially not on minimum wage. He set the money on the table and walked out the door without saying goodbye.

  #

  Henry finished his first day of work at three in the afternoon when Bruce came back to take over. Instead of spending the money to eat out yet another time, Henry elected to buy some food at the Corner Store to take home for meals. It had been a long first day, and enjoying some relaxing time around his new home might do him some good.

  He said goodbye to Bruce and grabbed his shopping bag. It was full of microwave burritos, cereal, bread, cheese, eggs, peanut butter, and milk. When he got back to the house he put the groceries away, took a quick shower, and put some fresh clothes on before exploring the place. Henry hadn't had much time to check out the rest of the house the day before. As Chum had told him, just about everything he needed was already here. A refrigerator, a microwave, even a bed in the second bedroom, not that he was expecting company anytime soon. The closet space was minimal but that didn't matter much to Henry.

  He walked down the narrow staircase in the kitchen to the basement. The old steps creaked so much that Henry expected to crash through them with every move he made. When he reached the bottom he noticed a clothes washer and dryer on the left. To the right were two more rooms. He walked into the first one and immediately saw that it was deserted. It had a closet that was also empty. Not that Henry expected to find buried treasure or anything. He was just curious and preferred to be aware of his surroundings.

  After discovering the other room was vacant as well, he returned to the kitchen and made himself a peanut butter sandwich. He sat down on the couch, put his glass of milk on the carpeted floor and ate with his plate in his lap. He stared at the empty entertainment center that most likely once housed a television set. From what he had seen, there was no radio in the house, either.

  I'm going to need to find a hobby, Henry thought to himself. He soon fell asleep on the couch, still sitting up, with the plate in his lap.

  III

  Over the next few days Henry settled in to Gable, his job, and his new home. One morning he woke up to discover he did, indeed, have a roommate. The plate he had left on the kitchen counter overnight no longer had bread crusts on it. Discovering this sent a chill down Henry's spine. It wasn't that mice frightened him. After all, they were always so fun to watch in cartoons: Mickey, S
peedy, Jerry. But there was something creepy about real ones. The way they lived in houses and did as they pleased. And they were never seen by the human eye until after they grabbed that fatal final piece of cheese—Snap!

  But Henry had another idea. Something that he hoped would wind up being far more entertaining. One afternoon following work he made a quick trip to the pet store at the northern end of Adler. For a nominal fee Henry adopted a black cat; he named him "Wilson" after Tom Hanks' volleyball friend in the movie Castaway. Now he had a real roommate and not a squatter.

  Henry hadn't seen Claire since she told him not to tip her so much, but he hadn't been back to Stubby's either. Instead, he had been bringing his lunch to work or buying it at the store. If Bruce came to relieve him he would either sit outside and eat or take a walk up and down Main Street. One day Bruce wasn't able to make it in to give Henry a break, so he just ate behind the counter while continuing to take care of the register. Bruce made it up to him by letting Henry take off an hour early and still paying him for that hour.

  When Friday of his first week in Gable rolled around it was time for Henry to work his first night shift. He and Bruce had worked out the schedule: Bruce would work six to three during the day on Friday. Henry would come in from three until eleven and close the store. Then he would return on Saturday morning to work from eight to three. Bruce would then cover the next two shifts so Henry could have some time off over the weekend. Henry would return to work at three until close on Sunday and go back to the day shifts for the week starting Monday morning. Bruce was a married man and had grandchildren to spend time with, but Henry wasn't sure what he'd do with his time off. Working this job hadn't even seemed like work, so far. It was a laid-back gig. People were, in general, nice to him. Or at least they were reserved and quiet, which was fine with Henry.

  His first afternoon working at the Corner Store was like the mornings had been. But there were fewer people buying coffee and more buying beer this time of day. It was Friday, after all. Around seven o'clock, an elderly man had a difficult time getting the gas pump to work. Henry locked the door to the store, something Bruce had taught him on his first day, and jogged out to help him. The man was grateful and even came inside after pumping his gas to tell Henry what life was like when he was Henry's age.