“Mind the counter for me, please? I really, really gotta go!” The clerk was doing the dance that toddlers do best. I figured this wouldn’t take but a few minutes, so I said if he was willing to risk it, I’d be game.
“Thanks! All the barcodes are accurate and show the name of the thing on the screen. Hit the red Manager button if you need help. And don’t worry about the licensed stuff, I have the key for the case on me so you couldn’t sell it even if you want to! I’ll be right back!” He tossed me the key to the cash register and zoomed to the back of the store while loudly praying the toilet was working today.
I shook my head as I went behind the counter to take my place. I don’t even work here. I’m just his friend, hanging out during the slowest part of the day. The owner doesn’t mind because I do help him face the goods and keep him from falling asleep. (He likens it to paying for one employee but getting two employees’ worth. Anything that costs him nothing is always welcome.)
The “licensed stuff” were items that clerks had to be certified to sell. Namely, alcohol, tobacco, and adult magazines. The certification was just proof you attended a course on how to vet identification cards and other proofs of age. However, ringing anything from List C without being certified can result in a $5,000 fine for the clerk, a $50,000 fine for the store, and if minors are involved, federal charges for everyone. So there are only two keys for that case. My friend has one key. The owner has the other key. And all the locksmiths in town are on notice not to duplicate them.
I can hear my friend loudly proclaiming he is never eating breakfast from an unidentified shitty drive thru again. I ring up a bottle of witchhazel and a bag of cottonballs and pay for them. He’s going to be needing them soon from the sounds of it.
I had just finished putting the bagged items to the side when two people come in. I greet them with the standard company greeting. He smiles in response. She immediately leans on and over the counter to look in the license case from my side. With the exception of the adult magazines, everything in that case is viewable from the front.
She was about my age (older than thirty and younger than dead), but she dressed like a teen from the ’60s. And badly so. The pink hues were jarring against her bottle black hair and bottle umber tan. “Ya got Lucky’s! Yea! Gimme a pack of Lucky’s!”
“Get off my counter.”
The man was standing in front of the license case trying to get his friend’s attention. There was something else he wanted, but he was not speaking.
“I want my Lucky’s!”
“I want you off my counter.”
She popped her gum as she sized me up. Her skin was flaccid from a recent and dramatic weight loss that would hint to physical weakness, but her eyes were bright and feral and warned of desperate bursts of strength. I returned her wildness with a stone steady stare. If she starts anything, I will gladly finish it.
“Fine.”
She slid back to the customer side of the counter, leaving a trail of sweat and tanning lotion. This is why my friend keeps a spray bottle of Mr. Clean handy.
“Now gimme my Lucky’s.”
I smiled so warmly. “Sorry, can’t. Not licensed. If you’re willing to wait fifteen minutes, the licensed clerk will be back from lunch. He’ll then be able to complete your purchase.” I heard a snort from the back office. He was listening.
“You’re not licensed? YOU’RE NOT FUCKING LICENSED?! GOTCHA! I GOTCHA BITCH!” She started jiggling in happiness. Her clothes were not prepared for the movement and I wished for some industrial cleaner for my memory. She started tugging on her friend. “Come on! I gotta go turn this one in before she gets off shift! We’re gonna have more than just Lucky’s in a bit!”
She drags the poor man away from the case. I watched them cross the street to the one phone booth still in working order. Knowing the shitstorm that was about to descend, I hurried the witchhazel and cottonballs to my friend and slid it under the stall door. He loudly praised my foresight and asked if I was going to be able to handle what was about to come.
I asked if the cameras were working today. He responded that all of them should be. Both the ones he officially knew about, and the ones that the owner secretly installed.
“I got this. Stay back here.”
I have never seen Mr. Clean bubble before. When the officers entered the store, I loudly announced the counter was covered with cleaning solution before giving the standard company greeting. The officers stopped several feet short of the still reactive counter. The woman rushed past them to slam her hands on the wet surface.
“That’s her! That’s the bitch selling licensed goods! Ask her if she’s licensed! Go ahead! Ask her! … Eww… why are my hands tingling?”
Never seen Mr. Clean react to human skin before, either. Or rather, to the layers of stuff ground into the wrinkles and ridges of her skin. I handed a new pack of paper towels (that I purchased) to the closest officer. He ripped several off the roll and handed it to the snitch without comment.
“Miss? Are you a licensed clerk?”
“No, Sir. I am not.”
“You do understand that you can not sell licensed goods unless you have the license to sell them.”
“I do, Sir.”
“Then why are you smiling to see us? Is this a game to you?”
“Well, she is right. I am not licensed. But she did not tell you the entire story. She asked for Lucky’s cigarettes, and I denied her. Because I am not licensed. I don’t even have a key to the case.” The snitch started shrieking to see the Mr. Clean had turned her hands from the hue of rotten oranges to coffee-dyed eggshell. Apparently, she had paid good money for that fake tan, and the cleanser was fucking it up. The look on the officer’s face as he took a good look at the woman was priceless.
“So… there was no transaction?”
“The cash register has made no licensed transactions today. And if you’re wondering if I made an illegal and undocumented cash exchange…” I pointed at the four cameras monitoring the counter. “The owner reviews these recordings, daily. If I had made an illegal transaction, he’d be the first to turn me in for the reward money and then he’d sue my ass for the fuck of it. No money exchanged hands. No items were taken from the case. She asked for a licensed item, and I declined because I am not licensed.”
The two officers looked at the quieting counter, at me, at each other, then at the woman that was now scrubbing off the fake tan lotion from her forearms. “Then what the hell are we doing here?”
“May I offer a cup of coffee for you gentleman?” The owner was a stingy bastard, but he did have some sense in him. Uniformed first responders always got coffee and pastries for free. Can’t guarantee that either is fresh, but the coffee can substitute for motor oil in a pinch.
Before the officers could answer, their radios interrupted the settling scene. The dispatcher spoke a name, and the snitch looked up in sudden alarm. Before she could flee, the officers took her by either arm. “Well, it’s not a wasted trip after all. Thank you for your patience, clerk. Perhaps coffee another time.”
I finished cleaning up the counter as the circus three of them left. A movement to my left caught my attention. It was the quiet man that came in with the loud woman earlier. He made a wiping motion over the countertop.
“It’s dry and clean, now.”
He smiled and laid a battered notebook on the surface. In neat handwriting, he asked, “Is the licensed clerk back yet?”
“Good question, lemme see if he’s back from lunch. Do you know what you want?”
He nodded with happy enthusiasm. I shouted for my friend to stop hiding and teased him about requiring firefighters to pull him out of his hiding spot. My friend emerged from the back room, thanking me again for the witchhazel. I gave back the cash register key and resumed my proper place on the customer side of the counter.
“How did you keep from punching that bitch in the face?” The quiet man made a fist, then turned it next to his mouth. He had an inquiring look on his face as well, so I interpreted the gesture as him saying “Yea, how did you?”.
“I saw what her lotion was doing to the countertop and valued the integrity of my skin over revenge.” My friend loudly snorted as the quiet man made a grand gesture of deep laughter.
“Here you go, Sir. One pack of pipe tobacco, and one… uh… that’s gotta be ‘shopped.” Curious at the sudden deflating of my friend’s excitement, I had to see what magazine he had retrieved. An adult magazine for those that admire the many ways the male physique could present itself, the cover was of a full frontal view of a man in a very, very tight speedo. The genital bulge was much larger than what one would expect. “Totally ‘shopped.”
The quiet man smiled to shame the sun. On his notepad, he retorted, “Not manipulated. Well, the image, that is. He really does pack that much.”
“And how do you know?”
“Because he’s the one that got away.” The quiet man smiled and sighed in fond memory, then collected his purchases. A nod of thanks to my friend, and a nod of thanks to myself, and he was out the door.
I punched my friend on the shoulder. “You owe me. Lots. For one thing, I cleaned up the counter!”
I thought again of the Mr. Clean bubbling and finally realized I was dreaming. Shaking my head at the events of the dream, I left the convenience store and woke up.