by Kay Brandt
“Is this supposed to be funny?” I asked her. “If this is your solution to stopping theft, you might need to rethink your plan, auntie.”
“Rolie!” she shrieked. “How dare you not appreciate my tactics. I can't shoot them with a real gun! And I got in trouble with the cops for using too much pepper spray.” She quickly jotted down a few pencil sketches of the delinquents in a notebook before addressing me again. “Do you have another alternative that wouldn't cause great bodily harm to the little shitheads or send me to jail? What would you suggest, genius?”
Scraping the mess off, I got a good look at Aunt Grace. Her eyes were red and lifeless, covered by tinted green contacts in favor of glasses, no longer lit by an irrepressible spark. “I don't know. When did you start carrying sneakers? Is this all you sell now?”
“I've told you this!” she said, totally frustrated. “Do you not listen to me when we talk? What else would I sell? I gave up being a designer ten years ago and besides, there isn't a need for what your father and grandfather made. Everyone wants these. Style is a thing of the past.”
“I wouldn't wear them,” I replied, acting like I had discriminating tastes.
“Of course not,” she snorted, “you're a snob like Jonathan was.” She tossed the spent bottle of string and dusted her tight jeans off, still sporting a nice figure.
“He wasn't a snob. He was insane.” Reminding her of a well-known fact that neither of us could forget isn't worth the energy, but I said it anyway.
“What do you know?” Her usual reply. “You were a kid.”
I blow off her self-righteous jabs, inspecting the pair the thieves dropped while escaping, not recognizing the label. “Freaking ugly is what these are, and for your information, I don't wear sneakers because I like combat boots. They're comfortable, cool and popular among my age group. These sneakers aren't even brand names.”
“Cheap knock-offs are all I can afford to buy. Say thank you to me for keeping your business alive!” Tears filled her contacts. She blinked rapidly to avoid ruining her bold and frosty eye makeup.
“Thank you for wasting the last of the resources on crap? This is 1989, not 1984. Styles have changed.” And then I slammed her with the truth. “Only homeless people and foreigners wear shoes like this!”
Horrible, howling echoes were heard from the stockroom suddenly. I looked at my unflinching aunt for an explanation. “You have company?”
“It's the new manager.” Waving off the noise with a flick of her hand, she turned a cold shoulder to her employee's predicament. “Every day he complains of stomach pain. He's obese. I can't help him if he does nothing but stuff fat down his throat. I offered him diet pills―the really good ones―but he refused.”
“New manger? I thought you weren't hiring anymore after the last few didn't, uh, you know, work out so well?”
The howling gets louder, followed by a hard thud. “Go check on him if you must. Don't let him make you feel guilty, though!” Aunt Grace hastily grabbed the discarded merchandise, putting it back on the dismal displays. “He brought this illness on himself!”
I plugged my nose immediately entering the stockroom, breathing in the stench of puke and body odor. The portly new manager writhed in a nasty puddle of his own vomit. “Please, help,” he begged me. “Call 911. I need to get to the hospital.”
“You're the new manager?”
“YES!” The spewing rotund yelled to me, “I need help! I'm going to die if you don't call now!”
Seeing the stockroom for the first time as an adult was like having an out of body experience. Removed from the urgent situation, my eyes scanned the room for something familiar, mostly for the shoes. The heavy wooden workbench my father slaved over was loaded with mismatched sneakers, boxes and a huge stack of white ankle socks.
Jonathan's ominous assortment of dangerous weapon-like shoe-making tools were rusting on the wall, covered in cobwebs, dust, and old grease. An installation of rolling shoebox racks were built on metal tracks and swayed eerily in the breeze created by three crackling ceiling fans.
“NOW!” The manager's roar rattled me, and I picked up the outdated, grimy phone, dialing 911 before realizing the line's dead.
“Aunt Grace?” I said, sweat trickling down my face as I confronted her on the sales floor. “Did you forget to pay the phone bill? The line is dead.”
She whirled around, squeezing a scrawny, unattractive teenage chick by her throat. “It's not my job, Rolie! That's what the manager was supposed to do! He didn't pay it.”
“Auntie, let her go!”
“What?” Aunt Grace looked at me incredulously. “Why? She's one of the punks who steals from me, from us, constantly! I told her the last time she ran out of here with stolen merchandise I'd kill her.”
“And that's what you're going to do? Kill her?” Just then, I recognized the girl's blemished face as someone I went to high school with―a loser like me―being strangled by my former guardian. “I said, let her go!”
Aunt Grace dumped the coughing girl on the floor. The budding criminal scrambled to her knees, looking up at me with a shallow, heartless scowl. I've spent long hours in front of the mirror perfecting that same scowl, and I appreciated the ease in which hers came across.
“Hey.” Extending a hand to help her up, she swatted me away. “I'm Roland. I own the store.”
“Screw off.” She got to her feet, eyes darting from me to the door. “You two can go to hell. I'm calling the cops on this bitch for assault.”
Aunt Grace manually locked the exit, preparing for another attack, and then handed over the phone. “Be my guest.”
“Put it down. Remember?” I drew a finger across my throat, reminding her of the dead line.
“Exactly my point, Rolie! She has no recourse.”
A weird plan suddenly formed in my mind, and I decided to execute on it immediately. “I know you. We went to high school together.”
“I've never seen you before in my life,” she replied, not biting at the bait.
“I dropped out before graduation,” I confessed. “We had at least one class together.”
“Doubt it. I didn't take special ed.” Pleased with herself, the corners of her mouth tightly curled, ruining the perfect scowl.
Unimpressed with her remarks, I got to the point. “So, I have an idea. Would you like to hear it?”
“Rolie, no! No ideas! The cops are on their way. She needs to be arrested.” Aunt Grace shuddered, bothered by the continuing howls from the stockroom.
“You don't want to go to jail, do you?” I stood several inches over her, wiping sweat from my brow. “You'll have to piss in a dirty toilet in plain sight and sleep on a scum-covered cot. Is this how you want to spend the next couple of days, or months?”
“Maybe!” she yelled defiantly. “Stop talking like you're my counselor or something. I'm not afraid of jail. I've been there before.”
“Impressive. A family field trip?” I pressed on, ignoring my doubts. “The deal is I turn you over to the cops and press full charges or...”
Aunt Grace looked at me with a sarcastic grin, curious to hear the rest of the plan. Swallowing back the fear of what I was about to say, I blurted, “Or you come work for me.”
A scream of total frustration released from Aunt Grace. “No, no, no!”
“You don't have a say in this, auntie. The store is mine now, right?” I reminded her, sweating badly from the stress. “That's why I'm here, to take over. From the sounds coming from your current managerial choice, I'd say there's going to be an opening real soon.”
“You can't make her the manager, Roland!” Aunt Grace shook a finger at me like I was five.
“Yes, I can and I will.” I crossed my arms like a snotty kid.
Criminal girl shook her head. “Who the hell are you people anyway?”
“We're the people you've stolen several hundred dollars’ worth of merchandise from!” Aunt Grace declared, grabbing the backpack from her arm and ripping it open. Two
pairs of sneakers and a package of tube socks fall out. “It's like some kind of sick sport you idiots play. Your generation has no shame.”
I patted Aunt Grace's shoulder and asserted my authority. “I'll repeat the offer.” My voice nervously cracked. “Go to jail or come work for me.”
“Eat my shorts, dweeb.” Initiating the insult slinging, she stiffened her lips.
“Dweeb?” I laughed. “Is that the best you can come up with? Huh, skank bimbette? Bitch-o-rama?”
“Yeah, you butt ugly dick-brain!” She shot at me with verbal venom and I liked it.
“You barf bag, penis-breath ho!” Proud of my breadth of '80's lingo, I eagerly anticipating her next response.
“Shut the fuck up, both of you!” Aunt Grace resumed control.
Through the wall, the sick manager's howl boomed. Aunt Grace broke under pressure, throwing unexpected punches at the unrepentant girl, which unraveled into a full on three-way fistfight.
I'd never raised my fists to anyone or anything beyond the demon shoes and my amateur jabs have no impact. The chicks went at it, though, striking and kicking. Caught in the middle, Aunt Grace got me off guard with one powerful right hook to my jaw by accident. The blow knocked me out cold and sent my body crashing into boxes.
The bimbette broke free, running for the stockroom. Aunt Grace smacked my face, bringing my blurred focus back. “Roland! Get up! She's escaping!”
I fumbled on the floor, seizing the criminal's fallen wallet. Inside was her expired student I.D. and a bus pass. Stephanie Lutz was her name.
“I can't take it, Rolie. I've had enough.” Aunt Grace stopped herself from continuously slapping me. “You think you're so smart? Making deals on your own like a big man? It's all yours, baby. The whole rotten thing is yours!”
“I need to catch her!” I ordered, “You stay right there. You're going to hear me out!”
“No, I'm done talking with you! I've heard enough of your nonsense. I need to go get help before another new hire...” Aunt Grace's rant is cut short by Stephanie's terrified screams.
I swung the stockroom door open to a horrible and oddly heroic and comical site. The sick manager, still writhing on the floor, had caught Stephanie by the ankle. She was sprawled next to him, swimming in a pool of his puke.
The manager choked, barely able to speak. “I got her! Hurry!”
Just then, the sound of sirens outside the store grew louder and louder. A moment later Aunt Grace entered through the back door with a cop, who instantly dry heaved.
“There she is, officer! She's been stealing from me for months.” Aunt Grace was in hyper-drive, craving vengeance.
“Sorry about the smell. Uh, we're going to need an ambulance, too. Can you call one for us?” I revealed the non-working phone.
“They both work for you?” The cop pulled a handkerchief out from his back pocket, covering his nose and mouth with it.
“Yes, they do, even though she hasn't admitted to it yet. Excuse me, please.” Feeling sick myself, I retreated to the sales floor. The mess left in the aftermath of robber thugs and a chick brawl was abundant. I kicked a couple of boxes with my steel-toed boots and stomped on a few more, before sensing a set of creepy eyes on me.
Out of the corner of my vision I saw a misshaped male frame, dressed in baggy, old clothes and flip-flops. His long toes were hairy and covered in fungus. “Do you need any help?” I didn't care if he did, but the words came out without thinking.
“Size eight. Do you got any size eights?” His voice was strange and dry and yet his mouth barely moved when he spoke.
“Look around,” I suggested. “Your guess is as good as mine.”
The silence between us grew in intensity as well as the stare down. He suddenly turned, slamming the door behind him as he left.
I looked at the clock. Thirty minutes had passed since I arrived. After all these years, this is how the store welcomed me back.
It felt like another lifetime ago when I was the unwanted tag-along kid entangled in my parents' bad marriage and painful drama. In the drastic ways the place had changed, underneath it all, I heard the sad echoes and felt the vibrations of the lives the store had claimed.
Two generations of my family found their final resting places in the stockroom. Why anyone would take a job here is a mystery, as there weren't any benefits, except for a minuscule paycheck, unless Aunt Grace had sweetened the deal somehow.
Pressing my hands against the window, I squinted at the sun's glare and the traffic whizzing by. If I pounded my fist against the glass, would anyone stop and care? Or am I invisible to the outside world now that the store had me in its grips? A sigh of relief was expelled, then laughter, having expected much worse.
CHAPTER FIVE
“Is she coming with me or staying with you?” The cop had Stephanie cuffed in the back room.
“Hmmm. It's too bad we can't just break her in half and split the difference.” Noticing the cop’s disapproval of my lousy attempt at humor, I reminded him, “I'm just kidding by the way. I need to ask my aunt. Sorry, first day on the job. Not ready for major life decisions yet, I guess.”
Gulping down cold coffee sludge while Aunt Grace filled out the police report in tears, I tapped her shoulder. “I need a minute of your time, please.”
“You're the boss, now, Rolie,” she snidely replied. “You don't need me.”
It pained me to see her so upset, but it wasn't an unfamiliar sight. Kicking a speed addiction in exchange for anti-depressants and pain killers—her “new parent” cocktail—made Aunt Grace susceptible to major mood swings. This is an area where our personalities clashed. I preferred to feel nothing―the more numb, the better. I don't take drugs, and I'm not of legal drinking age, not that it would matter without parents or strict authority looking over my shoulder. The gut wrenching fear gets worse under the influence of a substance, and I'm too close to the suicidal edge as it is. She'd been pushing her anti-depressants on me for years, but I had no reason to be happy, so why fake it? If I wasn't such a coward, I'd already be dead.
“It feels weird being in charge, and I don't like it,” I admitted, on the verge of a teen tantrum. “Can't you coach me for a half-hour or something?”
“Why hesitate, Rolie? You made it perfectly clear you're ready to make executive decisions.” Tying her big red hairdo, teased and sprayed to perfection, into a fluffy ponytail, she took a deep breath and signed her name to the police report, then tapped the pen for me to sign it, too.
“You know, the 1990's are coming―the predicted end of the world is ten short years away. Don't you think it's time to change your hair style?”
She smacked me across the face, and I expected it. “That's a song, stupid, not a real prediction. Besides, my end-of-the-world came twelve years ago, when I first met you.”
It was a Prince song going through my head, just as she said, somehow controlling my mind and speech. I don't listen to Prince anymore―I grew out of the dance music phase after 10th grade. Death rock, metal and industrial punk have so much more soul.
I answered her previous question. “I'd hardly call it an executive decision, auntie. I don't think we have any other choice, though. It's not like you have a stack of applications from people begging to work here. You want out and I'm not interested in being here alone.”
“No, I don't want out. I need out,” she clarified. “At least a few months off for a vacation.”
“Where are you going? This is the first I've heard about you having plans to get out of town.”
“Does it matter?” she asked. “I might stay in bed the whole time and feel no shame doing it. I'll read, cry, eat my meals, and never get out of bed. I could die there, too.”
“Don't talk like that auntie.”
“Who cares, Roland? When was the last time I went out on a date?”
I was stumped. “Dunno.”
Aunt Grace tapped the paper again, impatiently waiting for me to sign it. “You're nineteen. Time to cut the umbilical
cord, don't you think?”
“I didn't realize there was one, beyond your court-ordered obligation.” She hated when I talked like this, but it's the truth.
She rolled into her favorite rehash. “You are more to me than a court order, Rolie! How dare you. When Jonathan and Melinda died I lost my life, too. It's not your fault, and I'm not blaming, but you and I were forced into a situation beyond our control.”
“I know,” I say for the hundredth time.
“I've done everything I could to make sure you were taken care of!”
“Aunt Grace, you've told me this.”
Her energy reached high-intensity, like the top of her head might blow. “I didn't know anything about being a mother and I know I've failed!” Cries turned to sobs, and her tears smeared the police report. “I've asked for nothing in return. I deserve some time away!”
I put a semi-sympathetic arm over her shoulders. “You need out. Simple and done.” And then I added, “I'll have to hire Stephanie.”
“Rolie, this is absurd!” She shoved my arm away and collected her purse, double-checking for cigarettes. “Your first big decision as the owner of the store is to hire a criminal who blatantly stole right in front of you?”
“Sometimes we have to make the best of what we have!”
She reminded me, “That's all we've done! You don't need an employee. You can survive alone in the store for a few weeks while I'm gone!”
“Weeks? You said months? Which one is it?” I asked. “And I don't want to be here alone! I'd rather die than be here by myself! Do you understand that? I've been saying it since I was a kid! You don't want to, either, which explains the long string of managers.”
“Stop it!” She yelled at me. “You're sounding crazy like your father!”
From the pit of my gut, I let loose a decade's worth of stifled emotions. “I HATE THIS STORE!”
“STOP IT!” She wasn't louder than me, and it disappointed us both.
“Why?” My yelling continued. “Who's going to fire me?”
“Excuse me.” The bewildered cop interrupted our recurring spat. “About finished with your decision making process? Your manager was sent off in the ambulance for treatment. The girl wants to know where she's going.”
