Soles

by Kay Brandt

  “You know what 'it' is!” she whisper-yelled at me. “We both do! The store would lock itself sporadically. That's why I didn't come home some nights. So, I started leaving early once I had a manager on duty. That seemed to be the key to not getting stuck.”

  Blinking at her shallow selfishness, I asked, “And the managers? Were they locked in as well? Is that how they... you know? Was 'it' what got them, too?” Stephanie stirred and I changed the subject abruptly. “So, she and I just got drunk like totally irresponsible kids. Maybe we'll do it again tonight. Maybe we'll drink all day, too.” I dug for the response I knew she'd give―the usual slap across my face.

  “You smell and look horrible.” Aunt Grace took a bottle of deodorizer from a display shelf and sprayed it on me.

  “Not cool!” I waved the air, coughing on the fumes.

  Stephanie crawled up to the counter, blinking in the glare of the sunlight. “Oh shit,” she coughed, seeing Grace. “She's back.”

  “Watch your mouth, girl.” Aunt Grace was pumped for an emotional showdown.

  I spoke before either of the females could get in another jab. “Why are you here, auntie? You said you were worried?”

  “Yes, I was worried about my nephew after his first day on the job.” She took the empty wine bottles from the counter and threw them in the trash. “I also realized I forgot to tell you I hired a company to install a video monitoring system. They will be here between ten and two.”

  “Like secret cameras?” Stephanie asked, slightly interested.

  “Yes. Everyone is doing it now.” Aunt Grace chirped at us like a programmed robot. “Video surveillance is imperative, considering the crime level lately. That way you're protected with me not here to take care of you.”

  My blood boiled listening to her maternal mocking. “We have a store to clean, so, if your business is done?”

  “Yes, quite done.” She sent Stephanie a nasty look, confirming her continued disapproval. “Have a good day, you two.”

  I quickly opened the drawer, holding the condoms in the air. “You forgot something.”

  Aunt Grace yanked them from my hand, then threw them at my wimpy chest. “Don't be rude! I was going to pay for the phone to be turned back on, but you lost out on that one.” And with that, she stormed out.

  ****

  Stephanie and I filled plastic bags with the junk piled high in the stockroom―the mismatched shoes, overflowing trash, and empty shipment boxes. We cleaned the floor, and I made a futile attempt to remove the old blood stains marking my grandparent's death. Stephanie watched me struggle with the embedded evidence, but didn't say a word.

  A horrid memory flooded back to me as I removed a grimy blanket from the faded red leather cushions of the antiquated fitting chair. The outlines of bodies were melted into it―the bodies that ruined marriages, yet kept a business alive. Removing random stick pins and sewing needles from the cushions, I see fingerprints, captured by layers of dust. Sadness hollowed my gut, assuming they were Jonathan's.

  “These bags are getting heavy. Want me to take them out?” Stephanie seemed sincere, but I could see a plan of escape lurking in her fake smile.

  “No, I'll take them out to the bins,” I responded, and then reminded her, “We don't even know if the door will open.”

  “Dude, if I'm locked in for a second day... you don't want to know.” The kept girl threatened the keeper and it amused me. “Let me stand in the doorway, at least.”

  “If I get it open,” I interjected.

  “If you get the fucking door open, then could you find it in your heart to let your slave have a breath of fresh air? I haven't had a cigarette since yesterday and this is not the best place to be while having serious withdrawals.”

  “Fine.” I crammed the blanket into an overstuffed trash bag, and committed to confronting the back door. “You can help drag the bags out and smoke, or whatever.”

  “Can I have the pack back?”

  I fished the pack out of the desk drawer and threw it at her. “Enjoy your cancer sticks.”

  She breathed the tobacco-tainted pack as if it was an oxygen mask. “Oh fuck. Thank you.”

  For some reason, I felt happy seeing her relief, like another good sign that I wouldn't be left alone. Together we drug the garbage to the back door and in one shared push, it miraculously opened. “As I suspected, the alarm system malfunctioned,” Acting like I knew what the hell I was talking about, I lead her outside.

  “You'd better reset it or fix it because I'm not spending another night locked in with you.”

  Deadpan, I stung her with sarcasm. “Oh bummer. And I was thinking you'd move in.” Trash tossed in bins, we stood there, baking in the sun. It felt awesome, and I didn't even mind hearing someone's whistle from down the block. Then, her assault of second-hand smoke burned my nostrils.

  “Ah, much better,” she exhaled. “Want one?”

  “No,” I coughed. “Hurry up and smoke it. We need to straighten out the sales floor, and then I've got to teach you, well, I need to learn first, how to use the cash register.”

  “Can we get something to eat?” Rubbing her stomach, she gave me her adorable scowl-pout and my heart softened.

  “I'll order delivery.”

  “From what phone, dumb-ass?” she said with a smoky exhale.

  “Uh, I'll call from the payphone. There's one on the corner.” I patiently watched the last of her smoke rings fade into the ether, and then got us both back inside.

  ****

  Stephanie halfheartedly cleaned the sales floor, stacking strewn boxes and putting nearly stolen merchandise back in them.

  Pressing random keys on the dated register, I'm stumped by the level of difficulty in opening it. My mother was proud when she purchased it as a gift for my father, wanting to modernize the business, but now it was an artifact of bad management. As straight forward as the warped metal buttons seemed, no matter what I hit, the cash drawer wouldn't open.

  “Smack it a few times.” Stephanie suggested.

  Hitting it didn't do the trick, and either did punching it three times in a row. “Ouch!” I whimpered, sucking the fresh cut on my knuckle.

  “Well, good thing you don't have any business.” She stated, stacking the last box. “These shoes suck. I mean, they really suck.”

  “Do you have anything else to say besides the obvious?”

  Stephanie shrugged. “What else?”

  “Clean the shelves.” I said, handing her a duster.

  She plugged her nose. “I'm allergic to dust. How about opening a bottle of wine? We only drank four. You said there was more.”

  “Might as well,” I agreed. “I still have to walk to the phone booth and order us food.”

  “Quench your thirst first.”

  Two corks were popped and we clanked our bottles together. “Dude, we're going to get sick drinking without food in our stomachs, though.”

  “We have crackers.”

  “We ate them last night.”

  “I'm sure there's another box or two.” I felt the hunger gnawing at my stomach lining. I wondered how much more I could take before risking Stephanie running away—or worse, confronting the shoes.

  “I ate the last one before I passed out last night,” she admitted. “Believe me, I searched the cabinets. I was starving.”

  My head spun, fearful she unlocked the one holding the shoes. “Um, which ones did you open? Please tell me not the ones in the stockroom.”

  “Too inebriated to remember,” she replied, brushing off my concern.

  “Shit. Well, anyway,” I said, the sudden fear thumping in my throat. “Maybe the ice cream man will roll by?” Desperate to kill the thought of the shoes creeping in the corners, waiting to attack, boss and employee commenced a second day of drinking on the job.

  ****

  “Do you have an extra shirt?” Stephanie asked, scratching her dry, dirty skin.

  “Only rags, that's all.” I replied, not interested in her needs. We'd end
ed up in the stockroom to avoid the heat coming through the front windows, and both of us were borderline shitfaced.

  And then I pondered out loud. “Why didn't my mother buy shades for the sales floor windows? The shoes on display would wither and fade after a few weeks of sun blasting. I remember thinking when I was a kid, who would buy warped, faded shoes?”

  “Can't answer your questions, dude,” she said coldly. “Listen, you have to let me go home to change. It's only human, not to mention, I stink and so do you.”

  “No, it's only human to complete the job,” I reminded her. “Oh, and by the way, my name is Roland.”

  “You sure it's not 'Rolie'?” Stephanie laughed.

  “Don't call me that,” I warned.

  “Whatever,” she swigged on wine, choked, and then swigged again. “What kind of shoes did your parents sell? Or was it always sneakers?”

  “They sold custom shoes. Unique, one-of-a-kind styles.” I dropped my guard and shared a bit. “Handmade by my grandfather and then my dad.”

  “Awesome,” she said, buzzed and bored. “Like what? Got any pictures?”

  Being equally as bored and mildly drunk, I said, “Fuck if I know,” and then stupidly said, “Let me look.” I remembered my mother's files, followed by the thought that the files were in the cabinet. The cabinet. Half way to the dreaded drawers, I stopped short. “Scratch that. I think my aunt threw out the pictures.”

  Caring less, she bounced to the next topic. “Do you know any good drinking games?” She chugged to the half-drunk mark of the bottle.

  “No. This is only my third time drinking.” I hate myself for being so dull.

  “Oh right,” she responded. “Just because you didn't get invited to parties doesn't mean you couldn't drink alone.”

  “Yeah, well, I played video games sober instead,” I said, using my sleeve to wipe my wine-covered mouth. “Doritos were my drug.”

  “Damn, I'd kill for a bag of Doritos.”

  Our stomachs rumbled in unison and for a second I almost felt like I loved her. “Me, too.”

  “Dude...”

  “Roland,” I reminded her.

  “Roland dude,” was her compromise, and I accepted it. “Go call for food! You can trust me. I won't run away.” She hopped up on the fitting chair, and instantly screamed. “What the fuck?”

  Buried pins shot up through the leather, piercing her jeans and flesh. “Something stabbed me! Something sharp stabbed my ass!” She yelled louder, “Get it out!”

  Blood seeped out of her jeans as she bent over to show me. On any other occasion, I would've behaved like a hormonal teenage guy, taking full advantage of her ass pointing up at me, regardless of her wounds. She was scrawny like me, with a boney ass, and viewing it sent a bolt of adrenaline though my groin.

  “They look like pins, from when my father used this chair.” Examining the multiple stabbings, I lied, “I thought I'd gotten them all out earlier.”

  “Get them out now!” she yelled. “They hurt like hell!”

  “You shoved them in pretty deep,” I told her, acting like a freaking doctor.

  “I didn't shove them in!” Stephanie spun around and slapped me in the face. My cheek stung with white hot sensations, like she slapped me back to life. “They shoved in all by themselves! I would never have jumped up there if I'd known! Why didn't you tell me?!”

  “I don't know! It was none of your business five minutes ago. Sorry!” Upset and defensive, my sarcasm overruled genuine concern. “I'd forgotten about that ugly chair until I uncovered it today!”

  Eyes burning with anger, Stephanie submitted, bending over again. “Just get them out!”

  With one hand gripping her boney hip, I used my other to trace the tiny puncture wounds. “I can scrape at them with my fingernails, but I'm afraid of making it worse.”

  “Worse?” Peering over her shoulder, Stephanie threw me a nasty look, then ordered, “Use something else!”

  “Like what?” I asked, glancing at the tools hung on the wall, looking a better fit for a butcher shop than a shoe store. “You'd catch a flesh-eating virus for sure if I used anything from in here.”

  “Oh my god, it hurts so bad!” she yelled. “Feels like I got stabbed with a hundred knives! Don't you have any tweezers?” Her screaming grew louder as the wounds swelled, sinking the pins deeper under the skin. “Fuck, fuck FUCK!”

  I fired back, “You need to take your pants off then if you want me to scrape with my fingernails!”

  Stephanie's screams morphed into a manic stream of profanity. “I'm not taking off my pants, asshole! What kind of sick pervert are you? You planted those there! You did it to me on purpose!”

  “You wish!” Tired of arguing, I squeezed her ass, forcing the pins to poke out far enough for me to grab a few ends. The first one I pulled out was long, much longer than I'd expected, blackened with tarnish and blood.

  “STOP IT!” I heard her, yet I continued, extracting two more.

  “Almost done,” I lied again, realizing the pins were numerous―and spreading like a virus. Her ass cheeks were covered with pin injections, and I panicked, doubtful I could remove them. “You have to stop moving!”

  “Screw you! It freaking hurts!” Her foot swung back, kicking my shin, sending me off balance.

  Grabbing her hip, I regained my position. “Hold on! There's like six more.” Her blood filled under my fingernails, and it was weird and exciting sharing her bodily fluids.

  “Dude, let go of me!” she yelled. “I'll get the rest out myself!” She thrust her hips from my hands and limped to the bathroom, wincing and crying.

  “Stephanie, you can't. They're too small.”

  “Yeah, just like your dick, I'm sure!”

  Feeling like a sadistic monster, I internalized her hate for me. Our perfectly unpleasant, drunken morning had come to a crashing halt. Buzzkill to the max.

  ****

  It'd been fifteen minutes of listening to Stephanie suffering through the bathroom door. The good angel on my shoulder I didn't know existed, reared its ugly head and spoke through me. “I'm sorry you're hurt, Stephanie. If you want, you can leave. Go home, take a shower and eat, whatever.”

  Her cries suddenly ceased, cracking the door open. “Are you serious?”

  “Yes.” I confirmed. “Did you get them out?”

  She admitted, “A few. That mother fucker was long! Like the longest needle I've ever seen!”

  “Freaky shit, I know,” I related.

  “You have no idea how bad this hurts! I swear to god, if I do catch some kind of flesh-eating bacteria, I'm going to kill you.” she threatened.

  “Understood.” Stepping aside, I let her exit the bathroom without interference. She screeched with each step.

  And then she said, “I'm disgusting. I need to soak in a bath of hydrogen peroxide and burn my clothes.” Burping up wine, a trickle seeped out the corner of her mouth. She wiped it off with her crusty, soiled flannel.

  Motioning for her to wait, I dashed for her backpack and delivered it. “Be back when you're done. It's not even noon yet. I expect you here for the evening shift.”

  Stephanie didn't respond with words but her eyes glowed with a large amount of disdain, slowly moving past me.

  I held the back door open for her without a thank you in return.

  She left and as I closed it, I heard the lock click automatically. “Fuck me.” I said, thrusting my drunk body against it, feeling the bruises from last night's similar action. It wouldn't budge and for the life of me, I couldn't figure out how to open it.

  As the sole owner and operator of this horrible store, I made another lousy judgment call: finish my bottle of wine, and Stephanie's, too.

  Alone in the store for the first time ever, nursing the fear with booze seemed justified.

  I could clean the racks, sift through cabinets, and figure out how to get the cash register to open. The phone needed to be fixed and my stomach steadily rumbled like a military tank trekking across a
n urban highway. I'm too drunk to move, though, so I do nothing instead.

  Sitting in Jonathan's chair at his workbench, I remembered my father, hunched over a mountain of material, pounding on nails and covered in thick glue.

  Out of the corner of my eye I saw the rolling racks sway, which sent a chill down my spine. The air conditioning system kicked into gear without warning, and a cool breeze flowed down on me from the overhead vents, drying my sweaty shirt.

  I had no hope of Stephanie coming back, and resolved to become a functioning drunk. If there's a better way to deal with being completely petrified, let it be revealed. For now, getting wasted is all I can do to keep from standing in the middle of the stockroom, screaming for someone to rescue me from the store.

  Unable to sit another second, I wandered aimlessly, peeking down rows and double-checking that the cabinets were locked. There's been no sign of the evil shoes, and maybe, just maybe, they're really gone. Maybe Aunt Grace got rid of them at some point? Or one of her managers threw the ugly things out. Wherever they are isn't near me, and that's how I plan on keeping it.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Hours had passed, I thought in a blurred daze, hearing the front door slam. I'd fallen asleep on Jonathan's heavy wooden workbench and felt my cheek numb and splintered. The sound of the door gave me a small sense of relief that Stephanie had returned quicker than I'd hoped. Maybe she really did want to work with me?

  I waited for more noise, Stephanie's sarcastic tone, or shoes scuffing on the torn sales floor carpet, but the store went silent.

  “Stephanie?” I scratched out, throat dry and sore. My head spun, still drunk, and it took three attempts to stand steady.

  “Hello? Is anyone here?” An unfamiliar female voice called out from the sales floor.

  Weakly, I managed to move my legs and shuffled out to greet whoever it was.

  The sun was bright through the front room windows, illuminating a staggeringly beautiful young lady with blondish hair swept into a French twist. Tendrils framed both sides of her rosy face, and her lips shimmered like pink gold. She appeared as an angel with an ethereal glow and beaming, cerulean eyes. At first sight of her my mind filled with poetic prose―a total departure from the bland and boring thoughts that plagued me.