(no subject)
"clay was working one of those hot, sticky july afternoons again. the kind of afternoon that drags out a whole year, and then repeats itself over and over, until the leaves fling themselves off the trees in protest. munroe had him sweeping out back of the store. clay lifted his feet, hearing the "schtick" as they carefully extracted themselves from the sticky surface, and the "schlack" as they replanted. even the dust was sticking to the floor. clay threw down his broom, and took a seat on the piles and piles of cans that munroe would never, or could never hope to sell.
"get yo' god-damned ass off my god-damned stock, clay", munroe's withering voice rang from out front, punctuating each word with a pause. clay hated the way munroe said 'god-damned', empasising all three of the d's, giving it a stacatto it really didn't need. "you sit down on the job just one more time, and you're out of here. got me? out. of. here". clay knew he was bullshitting. no-one else in the whole of province would work for the old bastard. clay opened a can of peaches, and listened to the chimes of opening door, watching the vacated space to see who would come in. even though he knew full well who it would be.
jimmy french was the cause of the chimes. every day since he was nine and three eights, jimmy had come into munroe's store, and, walking carefully, made his away around the back of the stand on the far right, into the very spot where munroe's mirror couldn't reach or he didn't care to look, and stuffed two dollars worth of 'robbins candy' under his jumper. by the time he was 13, he was so sick of the damn stuff that he couldn't even smell it without retching. but he would still steal his $2 worth. he did it because he could. he would then walk around to the front of the store, pick up a 10c bottle of pop, and pay with a smile.
"i'm sorry for what will happen to you, james" said munroe, every day. he insisted on calling jimmy 'james', even though neither his mother or father ever would. he did it because he could. every day, jimmy would give munroe the same, sickeningly toothy smile, and leave the store laughing to himself that he'd got away with it, yet again. it seemed to jimmy as though he was always getting away with it."
"get yo' god-damned ass off my god-damned stock, clay", munroe's withering voice rang from out front, punctuating each word with a pause. clay hated the way munroe said 'god-damned', empasising all three of the d's, giving it a stacatto it really didn't need. "you sit down on the job just one more time, and you're out of here. got me? out. of. here". clay knew he was bullshitting. no-one else in the whole of province would work for the old bastard. clay opened a can of peaches, and listened to the chimes of opening door, watching the vacated space to see who would come in. even though he knew full well who it would be.
jimmy french was the cause of the chimes. every day since he was nine and three eights, jimmy had come into munroe's store, and, walking carefully, made his away around the back of the stand on the far right, into the very spot where munroe's mirror couldn't reach or he didn't care to look, and stuffed two dollars worth of 'robbins candy' under his jumper. by the time he was 13, he was so sick of the damn stuff that he couldn't even smell it without retching. but he would still steal his $2 worth. he did it because he could. he would then walk around to the front of the store, pick up a 10c bottle of pop, and pay with a smile.
"i'm sorry for what will happen to you, james" said munroe, every day. he insisted on calling jimmy 'james', even though neither his mother or father ever would. he did it because he could. every day, jimmy would give munroe the same, sickeningly toothy smile, and leave the store laughing to himself that he'd got away with it, yet again. it seemed to jimmy as though he was always getting away with it."