Dwight Light: Closing Shop
I spent the day traveling home for winter break. This is what I did during the layovers. Enjoy! Matt
Smiling.
“Well. Jamaal. Pleasure to see you again tonight. Were you pleased with the sample?”
Jamaal was a young man, about twenty years old. Dwight was an old man, about two hundred.
Jamaal darted his eyes around the store before he answered. No one else here.
“Yeah, that was some god damn good shit, boss. I was wandering if you had any more on you. Like, maybe fifty grams?”
Dwight laughed, low, humorless.
“Jamaal, Jamaal, nothing would give me greater pleasure than to do business with you. But you see, I have a store policy here. I don’t hire anyone until they fill out an application. And you’re asking me for a job.”
Uncomfortable.
“What? No, man, I ain’t asking for no job. I’m asking you for a fifty. No charity.”
The same slow, rolling laugh, polluting the atmosphere.
“Ah but you are, Jaamal. Because I only do business with my employees. That’s why, if I sold you a fifty, I would have to have a job application. Have you filled out one of my applications?”
“No. I have not filled out an application. I do not want a job. I want.
To purchase.
Some drugs.
With money.”
Each sentence louder than the last. Dwight’s laugh continued, more invasive, permeating Jamaal’s bones.
“Yes, but I only let my dealers purchase my drugs with my own money! That’s why you must fill out a job application!”
Consistent laughter, but the pitch was rising. Jamaal’s right hand moved towards the small of his back.
“Listen man, I don’t know nothin’ about no job application. All I’m asking for is some crack. And if you don’t want to do business with me, then I might just go crazy in here. You here me? I might just go crazy in here!”
The laugh this time came loud, unmistakably the symptom of authentic enjoyment. Jamaal, with his hand on his gun, was infuriated.
“Are you fucking with me, you crazy mother fucker? Do you think I’m playing with you?”
This to the accompaniment of more laughter. Jamaal pulled his gun out of his pants.
“Bitch I’ll cap your ass! I’ll waste you, mother fucker!”
“Boom!” Dwight's hand slammed on the glass counter top. Underneath it was a sheet of notebook paper. “Your job application. On it you will write the names of ten persons to whom you intend to sell my cocaine. You will write their names down, and you will have them sign next to their names. Once I am assured that you are able to find a market for my product, then I will begin my investigation into your customers. If I decide that they are acceptable, then I will sell to you, and you will re-sell to them. Now, are my terms acceptable?”
Jamaal’s hand shook, his gun aiming first at Dwight’s left ear, then his appendix, then at his toothy smile. Something was wrong with his cheeks.
“Yeah. Yeah, boss. They’re acceptable.”
“Well, isn’t that special. I’m happy. See how happy I am?”
Jamaal noticed his gun. He stuffed it back into his pants as inconspicuously as possible. Then he grabbed the piece of paper as rebelliously as he knew how, turned his back, and stomped towards the door.
“You want some advice?”
Jamaal stopped. His head cocked ever so slightly.
“The next time you go to a job interview? Be sure and load your gun.”
The sound of Dwight’s laughter carried Jamaal out the door. The little bell over the door marked and mocked his departure. Recovering himself, Dwight looked at his friend.
“Thank you, Sally. I don’t know how we’re going to handle this one. He’ll be difficult to supervise-hard to control. He’ll be mellow as long as he’s intimidated, but once he gets angry enough he’ll forget that he’s afraid.”
“Yes…” replied the ghost, “I think the trick is to spook him enough to keep him looking over his shoulder, but not enough to scare him off. Are you sure Clarence is the right one for this job?”
“Clarence owes me. He wants my services more than the rest of them combined right now. He won’t screw it up. He can’t afford it.”
“Well,” he continued, turning his body towards his friend, “That’s another one I owe you. If you hadn’t told me beforehand that the kid was coming into my store with an empty gun, I would have been scared shitless. I appreciate it, Sally. You sure I can’t do anything for you?”
“Thanks,” she replied, “I know you would if you could. But I’m afraid you’ll just have to keep accepting my favors without being able to pay for them. But maybe that’s enough, you moocher.”
The look she gave him was the grandmotherly equivalent of sticking out her tongue.
“You fucking whore. Do you know I could force you into the underworld any time I choose? Do you know I could summon the most vile fiend imaginable and order him to tear apart your ghostly flesh? To hell with charity, bitch, you do this because I’ll kill you if you don’t. You know how many women I kidnapped in my day and ripped their souls out? Do you know the abominations I’ve created? Hell, I’m the one who probably killed your daughter.”
“Dwight Light!” Pearly translucence streamed out of her eyes. Her mouth curled into hatred, her ears pulled back into a snarl. “Don’t you ever talk about my daughter again, you insensitive, maladjusted freak.” Her hand covering her mouth, she turned in a swirl of skirts and soundlessly stomped through the wall.
Oh. Dwight did not move for fifteen seconds. Then he smiled, grimaced, and grabbed his cleaning rag from under the cash register. It was the only part of the counter that wasn’t glass. Dwight had scared off robbers before by playing that he had a gun under there. But he didn’t. He didn’t need one. The only weapons he needed were his own bare hands. His hands. His wretched hands that got in the way of his cleaning.
Dwight wrapped his left thumb around the Windex and lifted it. Now that he had it on top of the counter, he changed his grip so that his thumb worked the trigger. He wiped the cleaner off with the rag under his right hand, fingers lifted high to avoid scratching the glass, his palm and thumb doing the work that his fingers could not do.
Why couldn’t he find the line? Erised and Molly yelled at each other all the time. They called each other bitch, whore, cunt, tramp. Dwight wanted so much to be able to engage someone else with this banter. The joy that he saw, every “bitch” meaning I like you, every “whore” meaning you’re my friend.
“Sally, I’m sorry.”
Then he grabbed his jacket, pulled it on ever so carefully so as not to rip the sleeves. Four o’clock in the morning, closing time. He picked his hat off of his desk in his back room and set it on his head. The last thing he put on was his mask. His façade.
His smile.
Smiling.
“Well. Jamaal. Pleasure to see you again tonight. Were you pleased with the sample?”
Jamaal was a young man, about twenty years old. Dwight was an old man, about two hundred.
Jamaal darted his eyes around the store before he answered. No one else here.
“Yeah, that was some god damn good shit, boss. I was wandering if you had any more on you. Like, maybe fifty grams?”
Dwight laughed, low, humorless.
“Jamaal, Jamaal, nothing would give me greater pleasure than to do business with you. But you see, I have a store policy here. I don’t hire anyone until they fill out an application. And you’re asking me for a job.”
Uncomfortable.
“What? No, man, I ain’t asking for no job. I’m asking you for a fifty. No charity.”
The same slow, rolling laugh, polluting the atmosphere.
“Ah but you are, Jaamal. Because I only do business with my employees. That’s why, if I sold you a fifty, I would have to have a job application. Have you filled out one of my applications?”
“No. I have not filled out an application. I do not want a job. I want.
To purchase.
Some drugs.
With money.”
Each sentence louder than the last. Dwight’s laugh continued, more invasive, permeating Jamaal’s bones.
“Yes, but I only let my dealers purchase my drugs with my own money! That’s why you must fill out a job application!”
Consistent laughter, but the pitch was rising. Jamaal’s right hand moved towards the small of his back.
“Listen man, I don’t know nothin’ about no job application. All I’m asking for is some crack. And if you don’t want to do business with me, then I might just go crazy in here. You here me? I might just go crazy in here!”
The laugh this time came loud, unmistakably the symptom of authentic enjoyment. Jamaal, with his hand on his gun, was infuriated.
“Are you fucking with me, you crazy mother fucker? Do you think I’m playing with you?”
This to the accompaniment of more laughter. Jamaal pulled his gun out of his pants.
“Bitch I’ll cap your ass! I’ll waste you, mother fucker!”
“Boom!” Dwight's hand slammed on the glass counter top. Underneath it was a sheet of notebook paper. “Your job application. On it you will write the names of ten persons to whom you intend to sell my cocaine. You will write their names down, and you will have them sign next to their names. Once I am assured that you are able to find a market for my product, then I will begin my investigation into your customers. If I decide that they are acceptable, then I will sell to you, and you will re-sell to them. Now, are my terms acceptable?”
Jamaal’s hand shook, his gun aiming first at Dwight’s left ear, then his appendix, then at his toothy smile. Something was wrong with his cheeks.
“Yeah. Yeah, boss. They’re acceptable.”
“Well, isn’t that special. I’m happy. See how happy I am?”
Jamaal noticed his gun. He stuffed it back into his pants as inconspicuously as possible. Then he grabbed the piece of paper as rebelliously as he knew how, turned his back, and stomped towards the door.
“You want some advice?”
Jamaal stopped. His head cocked ever so slightly.
“The next time you go to a job interview? Be sure and load your gun.”
The sound of Dwight’s laughter carried Jamaal out the door. The little bell over the door marked and mocked his departure. Recovering himself, Dwight looked at his friend.
“Thank you, Sally. I don’t know how we’re going to handle this one. He’ll be difficult to supervise-hard to control. He’ll be mellow as long as he’s intimidated, but once he gets angry enough he’ll forget that he’s afraid.”
“Yes…” replied the ghost, “I think the trick is to spook him enough to keep him looking over his shoulder, but not enough to scare him off. Are you sure Clarence is the right one for this job?”
“Clarence owes me. He wants my services more than the rest of them combined right now. He won’t screw it up. He can’t afford it.”
“Well,” he continued, turning his body towards his friend, “That’s another one I owe you. If you hadn’t told me beforehand that the kid was coming into my store with an empty gun, I would have been scared shitless. I appreciate it, Sally. You sure I can’t do anything for you?”
“Thanks,” she replied, “I know you would if you could. But I’m afraid you’ll just have to keep accepting my favors without being able to pay for them. But maybe that’s enough, you moocher.”
The look she gave him was the grandmotherly equivalent of sticking out her tongue.
“You fucking whore. Do you know I could force you into the underworld any time I choose? Do you know I could summon the most vile fiend imaginable and order him to tear apart your ghostly flesh? To hell with charity, bitch, you do this because I’ll kill you if you don’t. You know how many women I kidnapped in my day and ripped their souls out? Do you know the abominations I’ve created? Hell, I’m the one who probably killed your daughter.”
“Dwight Light!” Pearly translucence streamed out of her eyes. Her mouth curled into hatred, her ears pulled back into a snarl. “Don’t you ever talk about my daughter again, you insensitive, maladjusted freak.” Her hand covering her mouth, she turned in a swirl of skirts and soundlessly stomped through the wall.
Oh. Dwight did not move for fifteen seconds. Then he smiled, grimaced, and grabbed his cleaning rag from under the cash register. It was the only part of the counter that wasn’t glass. Dwight had scared off robbers before by playing that he had a gun under there. But he didn’t. He didn’t need one. The only weapons he needed were his own bare hands. His hands. His wretched hands that got in the way of his cleaning.
Dwight wrapped his left thumb around the Windex and lifted it. Now that he had it on top of the counter, he changed his grip so that his thumb worked the trigger. He wiped the cleaner off with the rag under his right hand, fingers lifted high to avoid scratching the glass, his palm and thumb doing the work that his fingers could not do.
Why couldn’t he find the line? Erised and Molly yelled at each other all the time. They called each other bitch, whore, cunt, tramp. Dwight wanted so much to be able to engage someone else with this banter. The joy that he saw, every “bitch” meaning I like you, every “whore” meaning you’re my friend.
“Sally, I’m sorry.”
Then he grabbed his jacket, pulled it on ever so carefully so as not to rip the sleeves. Four o’clock in the morning, closing time. He picked his hat off of his desk in his back room and set it on his head. The last thing he put on was his mask. His façade.
His smile.