by Alex Roberts
A flip of a switch, and I circled back around to my spot at the register and crossed my arms. He went and took my place in front of the coffee. He selected the largest cup. He bobbed in a slow sway from foot to foot as he watched the brew drip, his long legs stretched in faded blue jeans. Muscled arms went taut as he reached across the counter for a lid.
Good God, he has a nice ass.
If I wasn’t at work, and if I’d known the guy a little better, I may have jumped him by now. If we were in a club or a bar, that cocky attitude and fine body would have me itching for a taste. Yeah, I’d have that guy in some back hallway with my hands all over him.
“Where’s the pisser?” he asked as he came up to the register.
Pisser? What the hell, was he an English bloke all the sudden? “In the back,” I answered, pointed toward the corner, and rang up his oversized coffee.
He beat out a tattoo on his thighs with his palms then threw a couple dollars on the plexi-glass countertop and walked back to the bathrooms.
The faint sound of whistling came from the back, and I rolled my eyes, making his change and setting it back on the counter next to his drink. So, he whistled when he peed. Motherfucker. I adjusted my hips. The thought of him holding his cock made my own swell.
I suddenly wished I’d never agreed to let him hang out. Then again, he never actually asked. Who knew when the road crews would be around? With the county’s fiscal crunch, they might not even attempt to come this way until morning. Hell, I’d be stuck with this guy until then. I’d be stuck with him as I wondered about that cock he held. By the look of the package at the front of his jeans, he wasn’t a small boy. Goddammit. Not helping my woody.
The toilet flushed, more whistling, and he opened the door with a huge grin. “Just knocked out your urinal cake.”
I tried to hide the laugh but couldn’t. “Yeah. I need to restock the bathrooms at some point tonight.”
He must have caught the dread in my voice. “I wouldn’t want to do it, either. I’ll haul other people’s shit around, but I’m not about to clean any dude’s bathroom but my own.”
He was back at the front of the store, pocketing his change and sipping cautiously at his coffee. He glanced around at the gum and candy displays on the front of the counter, reached down to pick up a pack, read the label, and put it back. He stretched and stifled a yawn.
“You’re not gonna fall asleep on me, are you, old man?” I snickered.
“Shit, kid. What are you, five years younger than me?” he chided then added, “If I do, I’ll just crash on your shiny floor, here.”
“I don’t think so. Can’t have any customers tripping over the bum on the floor.”
“Ah, yes. The legions of customers flooding the gates.”
He turned his back to me as he looked around, and I couldn’t help but glance up and down, taking note how that tight shirt hugged his chiseled back, the tattoo on his right arm snaking out from the hem of his sleeve, and another tattoo at the base of his neck that read “Allyson.”
“Who’s that?”
He tilted his head, peering at me with intense eyes. “Who’s who?”
“Allyson? The tattoo on your neck—”
“My daughter.” He sauntered to the benches in the back of the store. Plopping down at the furthest one, he snatched and flipped open yesterday’s newspaper and hid himself.
I must’ve hit a sore spot.
“Got it done when she was born,” he said from behind the paper. “She’s with her mom, now.”
“Ah. You two…”
“Yeah. Divorced a couple years now.”
I glanced at the gauze covering my healing tattoo. I couldn’t imagine tattooing someone’s name on myself. Of course, I never had a someone to care that much about. “Sorry to hear. About the divorce, that is, not the kid.”
“Are you kidding me?” The paper crinkled, and James glared over the top of it. “We were practically kids, ourselves, when she got pregnant. I thought I was doing the noble thing by marrying her.” He shook his head and tried to find something of interest on the paper. “I had no freaking clue what love was or how to be a husband. We were a train wreck from the get go.”
“Why’s that?” I regretted my inquiry immediately. None of my business.
James set the paper in his lap and ticked the reasons off with his fingers. “Let’s see. The only thing we had in common was I had a peg that fit her slot. Strapped for cash. Fought over everything from which cabinet to put the coffee mugs in to sharing the car to get to work. After Allyson was born, she started in on drugs. Took me down that rabbit hole with her. Which left us even more cash strapped and even angrier.”
Dang. He didn’t look like an addict. “Uh. Sorry? You getting any help?”
He waved his hand, dismissing me. “Already kicked it. Only did that shit for a few months before I saw the dark tunnel at the end of that line. The ex thought I was no more fun and left. Went to live with the guy supplying her drugs. Turns out he had a peg for her slot, too.”
Indignation flared up. “You let her take the kid?”
James lifted a single eyebrow. “Naw, man. She left Allyson with me. But, we were getting evicted from our apartment, and I was broke. So, the ex’s parents offered to take Allyson in. They’re good people. But between child support and barely graduating high school, it’s been really hard to save money to get my own place again.”
“Thought you said she was with her mom.”
“Well, now, kinda. Tara’s trying to get clean and moved in with her folks.”
“Think you guys’ll…”
He wrinkled his nose. “Fuck, no. That ship has sailed. Pretty damn sure she’s spoiled me from women in general. Not interested.”
I had begun to lose heart with all this talk of female ex’s. His semi-flirting had led me to hope. “Not interested in her, or not interested in women?”
James picked the newspaper back up. “Yes.”
He unfolded the paper further, hiding completely behind it. Sipping his coffee, he went silent, and I took that to mean no more conversation for now. Alright, so he wasn’t a crash-free zone, but it sounded like he was trying to get things together.
I glanced up at the clock. 12:45. The weather report sounded over the speakers, and with a brief look out the window I confirmed what the newscaster was warning. It had gotten worse outside. The wind had stopped blowing the snow off the roads and parking lot, and it was really starting to pile up. If I could trust my depth perception, I would say it was past ankle deep out on the County Route, and probably closer to shin high by the gas pumps where it was a bit more sheltered from the wind.
Taking the quiet moment, I turned and shuffled the cigarette packs in their case, bringing them all to the front of their rows and making a mental note of how many packs I needed to replace. The incoming inventory left me one other job: full cartons of cigarettes that needed to be used for restocking.
Half way through, James began to whistle and hum something completely off tune. It sounded like he was making it up on the fly. The paper rustled again, and he suddenly went silent. I didn’t turned around to inspect the sudden quiet; I just kept stocking.
“What the hell is this shit that’s playing?”
“Music,” I answered.
“Well, it sounds like some love-sick teenager. I hate these songs. Thought this was supposed to be rock.”
“What do you want to listen to, then?” I stood and faced the benches. He stared up at me, the newspaper back on the table.
A smile spread on his lips. “This channel’s fine. I just hate when hard rockers try to go for puppy dog anthems.”
“Yeah. I wish they’d just stick to the good stuff instead of throwing the slow crap in there. DJ’s probably getting paid to play it.”
“I think that’s illegal.”
I rolled my eyes and went back to stocking. “Oh, come on. Call it kickbacks, then. Rental cars, box of frozen steaks, whatever the hell it is they use to get
around it.”
“You’re probably right. What do you think? Is DJ briber the minor leagues. Ya know, prove you can get a metal head to play sappy-ass love songs, and you can graduate to lobbyist in the state legislature?”
I huffed out laughter and held my hands to the side. “Not going there, man.”
Silence followed, except for the music overhead, which had thankfully resumed its agenda of gravel voices yelling into the mic. Minutes later, I heard his footsteps around the store. Looking over my shoulder, he was at the magazine rack. He picked one up and flipped open the pages.
I finished stocking the last cigarette pack, my knee bumping the bucket of ice melt as I straightened my spine. I was pretty darned sure no one was coming in, but still, I should shovel the sidewalk and put salt on. Really, I had no idea who this guy was. He would be okay alone, wouldn’t he? He didn’t have much of anywhere to shove shoplifted items, and my register was locked, as was the office door.
I grabbed my coat from the door again and slid it on, taking care not to bend the gauze on my arm, then picked up the bucket. “I’m going to go shovel the walkway out here.”
He waved over his shoulder. On my way out, I grabbed the shovel by the door and went to work. A few scoops near the entrance, and I was already tired. Damn heavy snow. I stopped to catch my breath and peered inside. James was still where I’d left him, reading over that car magazine with the half-naked woman on the cover.
Being stuck here with him was kinda a win-lose situation. I like his company. He was easy to talk to. He was also easy on the eyes. But, at the same time, he made me uncomfortable. He kept looking at me like he knew something about me I didn’t even know. He was my cup of tea, but I didn’t really like that he seemed to know it.
The wind had nearly entirely died, and now it was just a quiet, cold night. Snowflakes fell in a lazy path, but there was a lot of them. The air was thick with the stuff. I scooped and tossed shovel fulls off to the sides, taking brief time-outs to look James over. Okay, so I was making sure he wouldn’t steal anything, but part of me was also checking him out.
I should ask him if he works out or something.
What’s your secret?
That’d be lame of me, wouldn’t it? And I trusted him just a little too much, leaving him in the store like that. I had to finish shoveling and salt everything down before going back inside, though, or I knew it’d never get done. Heck, the way this stuff was coming down, I’d have to come out here a couple more times tonight.
I sped my pace, scooping snow until my arms and back screamed at me to slow down, but I’d already finished that part. Next was the bucket of salt. I splattered heaps-full onto the slick sidewalk around to the side of the building.
The salt crunched under my shoes as I headed back to the front and glanced into the windows. He was gone. Maybe the sunglass display was in the way, but when I tilted my head, looking past it, I still didn’t see him.
Quickly, I threw open the door.
Where the hell had he gone?
His boots sounded on the floor, and I spotted the top of his forehead on the opposite side of the shelves.
“Done already? How’s the weather?” he asked from behind the potato chip rack.
“It’s shitty.” I sighed and brought the snow shovel and still heavy bucket back inside. “Won’t be surprised if no one comes in tonight.”
He huffed and went back to tinkering with things on the shelves. “Sounds like it’s just you and me then, kid.”
When I went back to my spot behind the counter, I eyed him between the shelves with the magazine in his hands. Why was he standing? Maybe it helped him stay awake. I know when I first started this shift a year ago, I had to keep up with work so I didn’t fall asleep at 3 am.
I dropped the bucket off near the counter and fetched a bowl of hot water from one of the coffee machine burners to soak the pop machine nozzles. I figured I could get a lot of the stuff done I usually saved for later. Nozzles would need to soak for at least an hour while I reorganized store shelves and cleaned the nasty bathrooms.
Footsteps sounded again. He’d sauntered back near the benches, and I went to my spot behind the register as he scooted into a bench closer to the door. I couldn’t help but wonder why he kept moving around. If he wouldn’t stop going back and forth and drawing my attention, I may not ever get any work done.
He hid his face behind the car magazine, humming another tune different than what was playing overhead. He started bobbing his head to his own brand of entertainment, and it made him look years younger. Ya know, my age.
I breathed. Okay I need to get stuff done.
“My name’s not really James,” he said suddenly, stopping me mid-step.
“Huh? What is it then?”
“Jamie.”
I chuckled a little to myself. Jamie? Really?
“I know what you’re thinking, that’s a chick’s name, right?”
I shook my head — though that was my initial thought — and knew he couldn’t see it from behind the magazine. “No. Some guys have names like that. Ryan, Alex – girls use those, too.”
He closed the magazine and set it on the table, hands folded on top of it. “Yeah? I’ve never met another Jamie from around here.”
I shrugged. “I’ve only met a couple other Brandon’s. Who cares, man? It’s a small town.”
He narrowed his eyes and smiled. “You know, you’re okay, Brandon.” He stood up and wandered to the magazines. He browsed the rack and picked up another magazine — a tattoo one — but then slid it back in place. “Can I call you Bran?”
I laughed. “What? No. That sounds like a bran muffin. I hate those things. They’re all dry and nasty.”
He looked my way. “How many bran muffins have you tried?”
“I don’t know. A couple.”
“They don’t have to be nasty. I can make you a batch some time.”
I laughed harder. “You bake?”
He put on a faux offended look. “Just because I have tattoo’s, I can’t bake bran muffins? You are so biased.” He tsked at me. “I am more than my ink, Bran.” He made a circular swoosh with outstretched hands. “I am a complete man.”
I rubbed at my forehead, trying to choke down my laughter. “Right. I can see that. Totally metro. Question. Do you prefer Jamie or Jamima when wearing an apron?”
Jamie casually sauntered back up to the counter. Pulling out his wallet from his back pocket, he thumbed through slots and slammed his identification card on the countertop.
“Here,” he said, and I leaned over, eying the name, the date of birth, and the other essentials.
Jamie Brockman Jr.
He put on his best Clint Eastwood. “It’s Jamie, motherfucker. And I don’t use aprons. I bake in the nude.”
I stopped rubbing my forehead and covered my eyes. I could tell my smile was shit-eating big. I pictured it, though. Nude ass with oven mitts, tattoo’s, and bran muffins. That one was staying with me for a long time.
He slapped a crumpled five dollar bill next to his I.D. “Why don’t you gimme a pack of Marlboro Reds.”
I parted my fingers and gazed into his gorgeous, brown eyes – realizing he was leaning close enough I could hear his unsteady breath. Too bad. That would ruin it. I hated cigarette breath like a colonoscopy.
I straightened and reached up to pull a pack of cigarettes from the case overhead. “Can’t smoke in here,” I added, taking his cash and making change.
“No shit, Bran. I don’t even smoke.” He tapped the pack on his palm. The plastic rustled as he tore off the seal and opened the box. With a cigarette bobbing in his mouth, he said, “Quit way back when I quit the drugs. Cold turkey on all of it.”
“Then why the hell are you about to have one?” I asked, tempted to rip it from his lips, but I decided against getting anywhere close to him for fear I’d lose myself in those eyes – the ones fastened on me.
“I’m not gunna smoke it. Just buy a pack every now and then to
remind myself why I quit. That it’s worth it.”
I breathed a sigh of relief. “Why tempt yourself?”
He held the cigarette out in front of himself and observed it as it spun between his fingers. “Cuz you have to look at the thing. If I can put my hands on it, I can focus. You see, this thing right here, together with that crap the ex introduced me to – it’s going to keep me from getting anywhere in life. If I can hold it and tell it to fuck off – that’s better than avoiding it. Gives me the power.”
“Your girl?”
“Hmm?”
“Your daughter. Is that why you quit it all?”
He nodded. “For both of us. I was quickly becoming worthless as a father, and she’s the one good thing in my life. So, every once in a while I put one of these babies between my lips. Keeps me disciplined. I need the discipline, and I need to stay healthy if I want to have a chance at what I’m doing.”
“Making late night deliveries?”
He stopped spinning the cigarette and smiled at me. “Naw, man. Fighting. I’m pretty good at it. Fought all through high school. Fought all through most of the bars in this state. But, I joined a gym a few months ago – a mixed martial arts gym, and man, did those guys kick my ass. Thought I knew how to fight.”
He laughed and shook his head. I stared at him incredulously. “How is fighting in bars supposed to get you anywhere?”
“Well, a bunch of those bars have MMA nights now. Set up a ring and organize fights. Then there’s the stadiums. All the local coliseums have semi-pro fights once a month or so. You go pro and you can really make some good money.”
I wasn’t so sure. “Sounds like you’re getting paid so a bunch of drunks can act like they’re back in Rome.”
He shrugged. “Some of the guys call themselves gladiators, but not Don. He runs the gym. He puts the mixed in martial arts. Judo, Jiu Jitsu, Thai kickboxing, American wrestling, you name it. The guys an artist, not a gladiator. He doesn’t even fight. Just competes in exhibitions and coaches.”
