Lure

by Brian Rathbone

  Inside the convenience store was as busy as ever. Clean, well lit, and seemingly busy 24-hours a day, the staff always looked like well-wrung mops.

  At the deli, touch-screen ordering stations allowed customers to order without ever talking to an associate, but Sam refused to use them. For her money, she wanted someone to say hello to her. In this case, she saw redneck Brian behind the counter looking almost clean cut, his long hair pulled back by a rubber band. The look on his face made Sam wonder if she really wanted him to make her a sandwich.

  In line in front of her stood a large woman in a tube top and spandex shorts that looked like they were about to explode. Sam estimated they must be at least 100 psi. The look on redneck Brian's face as the woman approached the deli said it all.

  "Can I help you?" redneck Brian asked, not even feigned enthusiasm in his voice.

  "I want a dolla's werf of cheese."

  "I'm sorry, ma'am. Cheese comes by the pound. How much would you like?"

  "I want a dolla's werf."

  "Man. When I took this job they told me there wouldn't be any math," he said, laying slices of cheese onto a plastic sheet atop the scale, squinting, and obviously thinking hard. Then he pressed a button on the scale and a sticker rolled out of the printer. He picked it up and stuck it to the edge of the counter with a sigh, and then he bent one of the slices of cheese in half. After breaking the piece off, he promptly ate it.

  "What are you doin?"

  "I'm trying to make a dolla's werf."

  He printed another ticket and cursed under his breath, and then he reached for the top piece of cheese again.

  "Keep yo nasty ass hands off my cheese. Why you gotta touch my cheese?"

  "Because it's a dollar and five cents werf."

  "I only got a dolla."

  Redneck Brian finally just wrapped up the cheese and handed it to her with a nickel. "Here. Just take it."

  "Best not be touchin' my cheese with no nasty ass hands," the woman said as she walked away.

  "What up, ghost girl?"

  "I want a dolla's werf a cheese," she said.

  "Shut up," he said, but a glance from his manager changed his attitude…a little. "What can I do for you, ma'am?"

  "I want a sandwich."

  "Just punch it up on the PoS, and I'll make it with extra love," he said, no emotion in his voice.

  "I don't want to use the Piece of Shit. I want you to make what I ask you for. Got it?"

  "Yeah. What do you want?" he asked while turning one of the point-of-sale devices toward him. "Do you want a cold sandwich or a hot sandwich?"

  "Both."

  "Uh. It won't let me do that."

  "I know. That's why I won't use that piece of shit."

  "OK. Just tell me what it is you want then."

  "Thank you," Sam said. "I want a 12-inch hoagie with hot bologna, melted provolone, hot dog cheese, raw onions, chili, and mustard."

  "Damn. Are you pregnant or wasted?" redneck Brian asked, but then he glanced over at his manager, who was giving him a dark look. "I don't even know what to charge you for that. I mean the hotdog cheese is usually just for hotdogs, and we don't charge extra for it."

  "Just make me the sandwich and charge me something. I don't care. And don't be touchin' my cheese with yo nasty ass hands." This earned her a quick one-finger salute.

  "Did you order that crazy ass sandwich again?" Shells asked when she walked up from behind. "You are such a pain in the ass."

  Redneck Brian looked like he wanted to agree, but his manager was now standing with a hand on her hips and the look on her face warned of a good tongue-lashing. "Here's your sandwich, ma'am."

  Sam snatched the sandwich with one hand and gave him the finger with the other.

  "Hey," he half whispered half yelled, "party at my place tonight. No one leaves until the keg floats."

  A look of stern disapproval was on the manager's face as she rung up Sam's items. A line of people queued up behind Shells, and there was not even so much as a thank you for Sam when the woman handed back her change.

  "Do you have any condoms?" Sam asked, as if suddenly remembering that she needed them. Shells snickered.

  The woman just grimaced and threw a pack of Trojans on the counter.

  "Do you have any of the really big ones?" she held up her hands and made a circle with her fingers.

  "Yes, ma'am. We have Magnums."

  "XLs?" Sam asked, straight-faced.

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "Ribbed?"

  Shells leaned into Sam's back as she tried unsuccessfully to contain her laughter. Those in line shifted in the uncomfortable silence.

  "They don't make ribbed Magnums," the woman said, looking as if she might explode.

  "Well, you would know. Thanks. I don't need any right now, but I might later," Sam said, and she moved to the side.

  Shells stepped up, "Do you have any D batteries?" This time it was Sam and redneck Brian who had to try not to laugh. Shells spread her hands about 14 inches apart on the counter and then cut that space up with her hand into battery sized chunks. "I need six of them."

  "Yes. We have them."

  "Long lasting?" Shells asked. Redneck Brian could no longer contain himself and bent over laughing behind the counter.

  "How about duct tape, wire ties, cigars, and Vaseline?" Shells continued. Redneck Brian was no longer even trying to hide his guffaws.

  "Oh, God," he said. "You've gotta stop. You're killing me."

  Ms. Haughty manager collected the requested items and slammed them onto the counter before Shells, who looked increasingly pleased with herself.

  "Will there be anything else?"

  "Oh, hey. I forgot whipped cream," Sam said.

  "Now that's enough," said the woman behind the counter looking more indignant and judgmental than before. "I don't have to serve you. Now get out of here and don't come back."

  "Your loss," Shells said, while backing to the door. "Those D batteries ain't cheap, and I might be needing more soon."

  Once back in the car, Sam considered eating her sandwich in the parking lot, but given her recent run-in with the State Police, she felt it better to find somewhere else to sit. The Corner Bar parking lot was not an option for obvious reasons. She would just have to wait until they got to Cowtown.

  "The whipped cream was a nice touch," Shells said, and she bumped knuckles with Sam.

  If dropped from a plane into Cowtown and asked what state you were in, very few people would guess New Jersey. Sam would bet that most people didn't think there were any cows or cowboys in New Jersey, but Cowtown rose above the plain like a great monument to rodeos, horse racing, and of course, the world famous flea market; 'Often imitated, never equaled.' Just across from the State Trooper Barracks stood a two-story high statue of a cowboy, and a twice-life-sized red bull.

  Rows of open sided pole barns surrounded fully enclosed barns, and the place had a sense of age that couldn't be manufactured. Though much of the wood sported a fresh coat of paint, all of it was worn and warped by time, each board with its own character and history to tell. Sam could remember coming to this place for as long as she had lived. And pretty much everyone in the county attended the rodeo at some point or another. Sam had always found it to be hearty, earthy fun.

  Saturdays were busy days at Cowtown, as the flea market runs through the day, and the rodeo runs at night. Sam parked across the street, adjacent to the barracks, and next to the barn that had once been used as stalls during the New Jersey Sire Stakes races at Cowtown Raceway. The raceway was little more than a pasture, which currently housed a herd of cattle. It was not the classiest track on the circuit, but it had character to spare. It fit Salem County perfectly; it had been around a while and showed its age, but was unlike anything anywhere else.

  After eating her sandwich, Sam wadded up the paper and threw it into the back seat.

  "That's just wrong, man," Shells said. "You gotta quit trashing your car. Maybe we could get a little trash can for
the back seat while we're here."

  That was one of the great things about Cowtown, you could find just about anything and there were even things you'd never think to go looking for. People from all around set up tables and booths, ranging from a single card table to elaborate semi-permanent storefronts.

  "Aw, man. Roasted peanuts. I've gotta get some, dude." Shells said.

  "Really? Of all the good stuff here, you're turned on by peanuts?"

  "They're friggen' awesome! And you can just throw the shells on the ground. This place is righteous." Shells had grown up in urban Delaware, and Sam could still remember the first time she brought Shells to Cowtown. It had been quite a spectacle.

  Shells walked alongside Sam utterly engrossed in her peanuts

  The smells in the air also ran the gamut, from the smell of dust and old manure to the smell of roasting peanuts and chickens. Somehow it managed to be almost pleasant on all accounts. This place was a tactile, sensory, and cultural experience.

  Walking past booths displaying jewelry, used books, and video games, they approached what had always been one of Sam's favorite booths; the one with rock and roll banners, black lights, posters and albums. She could see the dark backdrop over the heads of the crowd before her, and she moved in that direction. Her aunt's booth was not far from there.

  As they passed the Amish food stand, which stood in a permanent structure built within the largest pole barn, stools lined either side, and women wearing sheer bonnets worked inside. The smells coming from within were enough to lure even those with full bellies, and Sam was tempted to get a roasted chicken for the ride. She'd been known to buy one and eat the whole thing before getting home. It was quite a feat, but she had skills.

  The longhaired guy in the rock and roll booth was jamming out on air guitar to Boston's Walk On, and Sam cast him a wave. He saw her and banged his head extra hard while she was walking past. Part of her wanted to go join him, and for a moment she stopped and jammed with him, holding up the crowd. Shells jumped in on the air drums, and everyone just had to wait for the moment to pass.

  There were low grumbles, but no one actually said anything to Sam or Shells, and they just began moving along with the flow once again. When Aunt Julie saw Sam, she ran out from behind her table and into the crowd. "I wondered what the commotion was, and now I know. Excitement follows you two girls wherever you go. Now git over here and give your Aunt Julie a hug."

  Sam embraced her aunt, who kissed her on the cheek before letting go. "And where have you been hiding, you rascal?" She asked before planting a kiss on Shells' cheek. Shells actually blushed. "It's been far too long since you've come to see me! I've been worried about you."

  "I'm OK, Aunt Julie. Now I have the chance to do whatever I want with my life."

  "And what is that, dear?"

  "For the moment…uh… hunting ghosts I guess."

  Aunt Julie looked doubtful. "I'm certain there are spirits out there that you can make contact with, but perhaps this is something best left alone. There can be a very dark side to things such as these, and I don't want you getting caught up in that, you understand me? Now come back here and let me smudge you."

  Groaning, Sam followed her aunt behind the table. She hated getting smudged, but she knew it was best to just let her aunt do what it was she wanted to do; she would get what she wanted one way or another, so it was easiest to just not resist in the first place. After lighting some sage on fire, Aunt Julie waved the smoldering mass of sage sprigs and sent curling wisps of thick white smoke into the air. The smell was pungent and almost overpowering. Sam could hear people in the crowd complaining, but Aunt Julie ignored it as she always did. "I hear your stomach growling," she said, and Sam knew what was coming. "Let me get some peppermint essential oil to rub on your belly."

  "Aunt Julie," Sam whined.

  "Oh, hush and do what your aunt says."

  For once, Sam did just that, and allowed her aunt to rub peppermint oil on her belly while vaguely familiar people walked by. It was an uncomfortable experience and was one of the reasons that Sam hadn't visited more often.

  "How are your bowel movements?"

  "They're fine, Aunt Julie. Just fine. I'm fine."

  "No you're not. Just look at your aura. You look awful. Doesn't she look awful?"

  Shells and a couple people from the crowd agreed that she looked like shit. Sam just raised her middle finger without looking to see who it was.

  "Now you 'cancel, cancel, clear,' young lady."

  "Yes, ma'am," Sam said.

  "Sniff this," Aunt Julie said. Sam wrinkled her nose and took a shallow inhalation. The pungent smell of oregano was overwhelming. Sam was glad when Aunt Julie finally turned her attention to Shells. "How are your bowel movements?"

  Looking dumbstruck, Shells just stood, agape.

  "Well?" Sam asked.

  "Uh. Like. Uh. You see, I lead a mostly vegetarian lifestyle."

  "Oh you must have the most magnificent poo!" Aunt Julie said, and the crowd drifted away from the booth.

  "Uh. I suppose so. Yeah."

  "I'm curious. You said mostly vegetarian."

  She hadn't actually asked a question, but Sam beat Shells to the answer, "Sausage links don't count as strict vegetarian, do they?"

  "Not most of them, no," Aunt Julie said, looking thoughtful.

  "Shut up," Shells said.

  "Here, both of you need to do an herbal flush and detoxify. I can see in your auras that you are very toxic, and a toxic body has toxic relationships. You hear me?"

  "Yes, ma'am," Sam and Shells said.

  "It's just some nice, gentle herbal teas."

  Having past experience with Aunt Julie's 'gentle' teas, Sam knew that each one was like swallowing a hand grenade. The last time she had tried one of Aunt Julie's teas, she couldn't leave the house for days.

  "I'm really worried about you, honey," Aunt Julie said, turning back to Sam. "I'm trying to read your aura, but there is just too much energy around, and with all that's happened to you, I can't cut through it. All I can see is darkness. When you get to North Carolina, you go straight to a psychic and get checked out. You hear me. No doctors or any of those quacks; you go see an honest to God psychic. Promise me."

  "I promise, Aunt Julie. I promise."

  "OK. I feel better then. But here, take this crystal with you, it'll protect you." The woman produced a piece of crystal the size of Sam's index finger. Notches had been carved on both sides of the thickest end, and a leather thong had been tied securely around it.

  When Sam accepted the stone from her aunt; she could almost feel it vibrating, and it felt warm to the touch, warmer than she would have expected.

  "Wear this around your neck and it will protect you," Aunt Julie said. "And don't forget to go see a psychic."

  Sam nodded, always amazed by the things that were important to her aunt. "Yes, Aunt Julie." This landed her another kiss on the cheek.

  "Here's the combination to the lock on the shed. It's dry in there. And you can keep your stuff there as long as you would like, though I do hope you come back soon."

  "And you behave yourself, you rascal," she said to Shells, who waved from behind Sam.

  "Damn, dude. Does she always have to get all up in your business?"

  "Pretty much," Sam said.

  Walking out of the barn into the sunlight blinded Sam for a moment. The sun was starting to sink low, and folks were setting up for the rodeo. "I wonder if Joey and Mark are over there," Sam said.

  "Aw, man. I wonder if they have any french fries made up."

  "You know they cook bacon and fish in that same oil," Sam said.

  "Shut up," Shells responded almost automatically, and then she laughed, "That might be why they taste so darn good. Damn you carnivores and your tasty bits. If you would all just eat bean sprouts and avocados, I'd have no worries."

  The smell from the concession stand was promising, and they walked up the grassy hill to the front windows.

  "What
's up, shiny happy people," Joey said from within, his reddish hair cut short, and his neatly trimmed beard was of the same color. His ears were pierced and he wore large black rings that made him look to Sam as if he were part LEGO.

  "Can you make us some fries?"

  "The oil's not hot enough yet," Joey said.

  Mark walked over to the fryer. "One fifty."

  "Yeah. That's too low."

  "C'mon, dude," Shells said. "I'm jonesing for some fries."

  "No can do," Joey said. "If I throw frozen fries in there now, I'll never get the oil up to temperature. Sorry."

  "Bummer, dude," Shells said.

  "I can make you a crab cake sandwich, or a hamburger or something. The grill's plenty hot."

  "Nah," Shells said. "I'll pass."

  "So I hear you got evicted," Joey said to Sam. "Heard you were having some trouble with the law too. That ain't right; turning on their own like that. You all right?"

  "Yeah, you need us to kick somebody's ass?" Mark asked from behind Joey.

  "I think I'll be all right, but if I'm ever looking for backup, you know you'll be the first I call."

  "Second is cool," Joey said.

  "Yeah. Like, I wouldn't be offended by second," Mark added.

  "So are you really going to North Carolina to hunt ghosts?"

  "Man, news travels fast as hell around here," Shells said.

  "Tell me about it," Sam agreed. "Yeah, that's exactly what we're doing."

  "Sweet! That kicks ass. Which way are you going? You're driving, right?"

  Sam just shrugged. "I don't know. I was going to look at a map."

  "I've got GPS, dude. We don't need no stinking maps." Shells said.

  "I'm just saying that you ought to cut through Harpers Ferry, West Virginia to I-81, which means you avoid Baltimore and DC, and it's a much nicer ride."

  "You sold me," Shells said. "Write that shit down."

  Joey scribbled directions on an order ticket and handed it out to Shells. "I've got prep to do, so if you don't want anything, then beat it."

  "Thanks," Sam said, and they turned to walk back to the barns.

  "Hey Sam," Joey called out, and Sam turned. "I hope you kick some ghost ass!"