2017 SmatchUp, “Four O'clock at the Dollar Store”
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“6 Tomatoes” Starter: Henri Bensussen Finisher: Norma Watkins
“A Sanctuary” Starter: Linda Perry Finisher: Priscilla Comen
“Dilemmas” Starter: Robyn Koski Finisher: Susan Lundgren
“Elves of Aisle Eight” Starter: Les Cizek Finisher: Notty Bumbo
“Four O'clock at the Dollar Store” Starter: Leslie Wahlquist Finisher: Amie McGee
“Greetings From a New Life” Starter: Sharon Bowers Finisher: Barry Bryan
“Growing Things” Starter: Donald Shephard Finisher: Sharon Gilligan
“Just a Word” Starter: Doug Fortier Finisher: Nona Smith
“Reality” Starter: Jasmine Norris Finisher: Kelly Daoust
“Saturday's Sundae” Starter: Patty Joslyn Finisher: Chrissy Sullivan
“A Sanctuary” Starter: Linda Perry Finisher: Priscilla Comen
“Dilemmas” Starter: Robyn Koski Finisher: Susan Lundgren
“Elves of Aisle Eight” Starter: Les Cizek Finisher: Notty Bumbo
“Four O'clock at the Dollar Store” Starter: Leslie Wahlquist Finisher: Amie McGee
“Greetings From a New Life” Starter: Sharon Bowers Finisher: Barry Bryan
“Growing Things” Starter: Donald Shephard Finisher: Sharon Gilligan
“Just a Word” Starter: Doug Fortier Finisher: Nona Smith
“Reality” Starter: Jasmine Norris Finisher: Kelly Daoust
“Saturday's Sundae” Starter: Patty Joslyn Finisher: Chrissy Sullivan
“6 Tomatoes”
Starter: Henri Bensussen
Finisher: Norma Watkins
Starter: Henri Bensussen
Finisher: Norma Watkins
Starter – Henri Bensussen
I coasted into the driveway and turned off the motor. The dying hot days of August, plants wilting, except for ground-hugging weeds under the car. Their roots probably reached right into the valley’s deepest aquifer. This winter, I was going to bury those weeds under three inches of rock after dousing them with poison. Unlocking the scarred front door, I stepped into a dark house. Messier than usual. A box of trash for recycling left in the middle of the floor. Sink full of dishes and tomato peelings. The wife had been canning the fruits of our summer labors. Loved growing tomatoes but refused to eat them raw.
I pushed plates out of the way on the counter and set down a bag of groceries. The breadboard fell from where it was propped on a shelf, knocking over an uncapped bottle of green dishwashing liquid. I grabbed the bottle and set it upright. My hand seemed to belong to another person. I watched as it picked up the heavy breadboard by its handle and swung it like a bat, hitting the counter hard, and harder. Pieces of tile broke and fell to the floor. The wife and I had talked of re-tiling the counter oneday; might as well get started. After another whack, I set the board down. The hand shook, as if looking for another target.
Six quarts of her canned tomatoes stood in line on the table like blood ready for a transfusion. The hand hovered over them for a moment, before leading me to the bedroom. I packed my clothes, grabbed the files the emergency crews tell you to keep ready in case of fire, and walked out, but not before leaving a note on the table: “Sorry I missed you. It’s better this way.” Ha! that was an understatement. I started the car, feeling there was still some unknown thing I needed for my escape; what was it, where would I find it? My watch showed 4:05. The Dollar Store would be open till five.
Finisher – Norma Watkins
Oh, shit, was that her car? What was she doing at the Dollar Store at four in the morning? It’s like she knew I was leaving. if I stayed here and waited for her to come out, the store might close.
The place was big. I decided to go in and keep an eye out for a red beehive.
What was it I wanted anyway? The hand pulled me toward groceries. I picked up a six-pack of Crystal Geyser to get me across Highway 50 and over the mountains. But that wasn’t it: the hand pulled me left and toward the front—to gift wrapping? No, there it was. Sterno for my camp stove, except of course the Dollar Store didn’t call it Sterno. Here it was Party Fire.
“Sweetie.”
My heart about jumped out of my chest. “Debbie.”
She gave me a big smooch on the cheek. “You devil, you didn’t forget after all. I was sure you would with such a long drive. You are the clever one, sneaking in here to get giftwrap?” She looked worried. “Hope you didn’t buy my present at this store.”
I shook my head no. “What are you doing here, Debbie?”
“Getting champagne flutes for our celebration.” She rattled a shopping bag.” I made us a cake, too. The kitchen’s a wreck. Never try to can and bake at the same time. Well, come on, you big handsome hunk. I’ll follow you home and before we start on the bubbly I plan on throwing you in the bed. You can start undressing in the car.”
I coasted into the driveway and turned off the motor. The dying hot days of August, plants wilting, except for ground-hugging weeds under the car. Their roots probably reached right into the valley’s deepest aquifer. This winter, I was going to bury those weeds under three inches of rock after dousing them with poison. Unlocking the scarred front door, I stepped into a dark house. Messier than usual. A box of trash for recycling left in the middle of the floor. Sink full of dishes and tomato peelings. The wife had been canning the fruits of our summer labors. Loved growing tomatoes but refused to eat them raw.
I pushed plates out of the way on the counter and set down a bag of groceries. The breadboard fell from where it was propped on a shelf, knocking over an uncapped bottle of green dishwashing liquid. I grabbed the bottle and set it upright. My hand seemed to belong to another person. I watched as it picked up the heavy breadboard by its handle and swung it like a bat, hitting the counter hard, and harder. Pieces of tile broke and fell to the floor. The wife and I had talked of re-tiling the counter oneday; might as well get started. After another whack, I set the board down. The hand shook, as if looking for another target.
Six quarts of her canned tomatoes stood in line on the table like blood ready for a transfusion. The hand hovered over them for a moment, before leading me to the bedroom. I packed my clothes, grabbed the files the emergency crews tell you to keep ready in case of fire, and walked out, but not before leaving a note on the table: “Sorry I missed you. It’s better this way.” Ha! that was an understatement. I started the car, feeling there was still some unknown thing I needed for my escape; what was it, where would I find it? My watch showed 4:05. The Dollar Store would be open till five.
Finisher – Norma Watkins
Oh, shit, was that her car? What was she doing at the Dollar Store at four in the morning? It’s like she knew I was leaving. if I stayed here and waited for her to come out, the store might close.
The place was big. I decided to go in and keep an eye out for a red beehive.
What was it I wanted anyway? The hand pulled me toward groceries. I picked up a six-pack of Crystal Geyser to get me across Highway 50 and over the mountains. But that wasn’t it: the hand pulled me left and toward the front—to gift wrapping? No, there it was. Sterno for my camp stove, except of course the Dollar Store didn’t call it Sterno. Here it was Party Fire.
“Sweetie.”
My heart about jumped out of my chest. “Debbie.”
She gave me a big smooch on the cheek. “You devil, you didn’t forget after all. I was sure you would with such a long drive. You are the clever one, sneaking in here to get giftwrap?” She looked worried. “Hope you didn’t buy my present at this store.”
I shook my head no. “What are you doing here, Debbie?”
“Getting champagne flutes for our celebration.” She rattled a shopping bag.” I made us a cake, too. The kitchen’s a wreck. Never try to can and bake at the same time. Well, come on, you big handsome hunk. I’ll follow you home and before we start on the bubbly I plan on throwing you in the bed. You can start undressing in the car.”
“A Sanctuary”
Starter: Linda Perry
Finisher: Priscilla Comen
Starter: Linda Perry
Finisher: Priscilla Comen
Starter: Linda Perry
This morning my mom said she wanted to pick me up from school today. She was a little vague, letting me know it was between us. I said “Ok, fine.” Turned out she didn’t want my little brother to hear we were going to the Dollar Store. She had his birthday party in mind. She also wanted to be alone with me. She’s great that way. I really love her and my Dad and brother and my older sister who went away to college this year. She’s pretty cool—first in our family.
Normally Dollar Store after school is fine, no problem. But these days aren’t normal, and I don’t feel good in public shopping places. I’m scared. All my life I’ve heard family stories about INS round-ups. Grown-ups are sitting around talking quietly together again. Now its ICE. Great name!
I’ve been coming straight home from school – not hanging out. My friends are worried too. We hear about kids finding their parents gone - disappeared. INS used to catch people in Rite Aide and Safeway parking lots, and at soccer games too. Dollar Store is perfect - where poor people shop.
My parents say “don’t watch TV news, or be on the Internet either. “Mostly I mind them, but its hard not to know what’s going on. My friend told me that someone in the President’s Cabinet said “People are going to be on their own with local police from now on.” I don’t even know what that means. It scares me.
Our City Council and Police Chief had a Town Hall meeting right after the immigration rules were changed. I think it was mostly gringos, but the teachers said Ft. Bragg is almost a Sanctuary City now, that we’ll be protected, and not to hide. The Mexican businesses went on strike and nothing bad happened to them. Lots of people came to the Latino Talent Night at Safe Passage, not just Mexicans. There are meetings happening for us too. I want to believe we’ll be safe in our town. I just don’t see exactly how that will happen.
Finisher – Priscilla Comen
I see my friend Alicia in the store and wave to her. She skips over to me. We hug each other. I look into her eyes. They are dark with worry. She shows me a birthday card from the rack. It says happy birthday in Spanish. “Is it for my hermano” I ask.
“Si.” She whispers as if it’s a big secret.
A man in a police uniform comes into the store. He walks toward Alicia and me. I shake like a leaf on a papaya tree. But he doesn’t look mean or angry. I motion to Alicia to go away. She runs to the next aisle, the one with tortillas.
The man looks at me as if he’s memorizing my face. “Are you alone?” he asks.
“Non, mi mama esta aqui.” I don’t know why I speak to him in Spanish. Perhaps because I am proud to be Mexican. Will he send me back to Mexico? This is what all the mothers and fathers are saying. We’ll be deported.
“Bueno,” he says. “Be careful and stay near to your mama. It’s almost dinner time.”
He pats me on my head. “And happy birthday to your brother. Tell him officer Jose said that.”
Mothers and grandmothers surround me. They smile and say, “Hola chica.” They all shop at the dollar store and seem to be proud of me because I spoke to the officer. It feels like a safe place now. I find a birthday card for my brother and show it to Mama. She pays for it. I’ll print my name later. I’m learning a lot.
I watch as the officer Jose leaves the dollar store. I am not so afraid any more.
This morning my mom said she wanted to pick me up from school today. She was a little vague, letting me know it was between us. I said “Ok, fine.” Turned out she didn’t want my little brother to hear we were going to the Dollar Store. She had his birthday party in mind. She also wanted to be alone with me. She’s great that way. I really love her and my Dad and brother and my older sister who went away to college this year. She’s pretty cool—first in our family.
Normally Dollar Store after school is fine, no problem. But these days aren’t normal, and I don’t feel good in public shopping places. I’m scared. All my life I’ve heard family stories about INS round-ups. Grown-ups are sitting around talking quietly together again. Now its ICE. Great name!
I’ve been coming straight home from school – not hanging out. My friends are worried too. We hear about kids finding their parents gone - disappeared. INS used to catch people in Rite Aide and Safeway parking lots, and at soccer games too. Dollar Store is perfect - where poor people shop.
My parents say “don’t watch TV news, or be on the Internet either. “Mostly I mind them, but its hard not to know what’s going on. My friend told me that someone in the President’s Cabinet said “People are going to be on their own with local police from now on.” I don’t even know what that means. It scares me.
Our City Council and Police Chief had a Town Hall meeting right after the immigration rules were changed. I think it was mostly gringos, but the teachers said Ft. Bragg is almost a Sanctuary City now, that we’ll be protected, and not to hide. The Mexican businesses went on strike and nothing bad happened to them. Lots of people came to the Latino Talent Night at Safe Passage, not just Mexicans. There are meetings happening for us too. I want to believe we’ll be safe in our town. I just don’t see exactly how that will happen.
Finisher – Priscilla Comen
I see my friend Alicia in the store and wave to her. She skips over to me. We hug each other. I look into her eyes. They are dark with worry. She shows me a birthday card from the rack. It says happy birthday in Spanish. “Is it for my hermano” I ask.
“Si.” She whispers as if it’s a big secret.
A man in a police uniform comes into the store. He walks toward Alicia and me. I shake like a leaf on a papaya tree. But he doesn’t look mean or angry. I motion to Alicia to go away. She runs to the next aisle, the one with tortillas.
The man looks at me as if he’s memorizing my face. “Are you alone?” he asks.
“Non, mi mama esta aqui.” I don’t know why I speak to him in Spanish. Perhaps because I am proud to be Mexican. Will he send me back to Mexico? This is what all the mothers and fathers are saying. We’ll be deported.
“Bueno,” he says. “Be careful and stay near to your mama. It’s almost dinner time.”
He pats me on my head. “And happy birthday to your brother. Tell him officer Jose said that.”
Mothers and grandmothers surround me. They smile and say, “Hola chica.” They all shop at the dollar store and seem to be proud of me because I spoke to the officer. It feels like a safe place now. I find a birthday card for my brother and show it to Mama. She pays for it. I’ll print my name later. I’m learning a lot.
I watch as the officer Jose leaves the dollar store. I am not so afraid any more.
“Dilemmas”
Starter: Robyn Koski
Finisher: Susan Lundgren
Starter: Robyn Koski
Finisher: Susan Lundgren
Starter—Robyn Koski
The day before the annual Spring Solstice party, Andrea Marks, this year’s hostess, shocked herself by parking in front of the Dollar Store. Andrea had decided to pot some of her succulents as a gift to each of the ten participants, her women friends. In the spirit of rejuvenation she searched town for pots in thrift stores, nurseries, and drug stores, but could not find enough similar vessels at the right price.
The event, an evening potluck with champagne, candles and affirmations, would conclude with what appeared as a coven of witches dancing around a fire pit.
Frustrated, and too late for an internet purchase, she sat in her Prius and battled her conscience about whether to enter the store full of cheap third world products, manufactured with unfair labor practices, ushered in by the National Fair Trade Act, and General Agreement on Tariffs and Trade. That was a few decades ago, and Andrea had launched letter campaigns to battle against both.
Desperate for pots, Andrea rationalized there was no harm in checking it out. Maybe it would give her some background for a story or, better, an expose. At the front window she perused the daily specials. Citrus Solve, $1, Wrapping paper, $1, solar path lights, $1, Q-tips, $1 —surprisingly useful stuff.
She entered, got a cart and wheeled cautiously to the seasonal merchandise. Pausing at a nice artificial flower display, if one went in for cheesy household bling, she moved further into the Spring section where Easter hopped up in happy hues, and children skipped around indulgent mothers. Afterall, why not, with Felt Bunnies, $1each?
She found herself in front of a huge display of pastel ceramic six inch pots, $1 each. Perfect. Then, paper napkins printed with tulips, and the quote, “Wine is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy.” Ben Franklin. Who could argue with him, she thought, wondering what “Penny saved, penny earned,” Franklin, would have thought about the Dollar Store. Would Ben have voted for GAT or NAFTA?
Ducking down the next aisle, she ran into Dan, her political activist neighbor’s husband, perusing the reading glasses. He peered through a scratched and broken pair, and asked her to help him find the 225’s. “I buy them by the dozen—go through them fast in the building trade.” Dan glanced down at the pots in her basket. Andrea could barely listen, worried about Dan telling his wife, Susan, about their encounter in the Dollar Store. Susan would be at the Spring Solstice gathering tomorrow.
Finisher—Susan Lundgren
She finished helping Dan, and wheeled her cart toward the front of the store. Then it struck her, maybe he made secret visits here without telling Susan, or perhaps they had an agreement that it was acceptable as long as it was never mentioned? Dan certainly showed no embarrassment when Andrea helped him with his purchases. Perhaps it was like their vegan friends Sara and James. James cheated, put cow’s milk in his coffee and snuck an occasional frozen yogurt when Sara wasn’t around. “Don’t tell Sara,” he’d say. She knew he did this, but felt it was his decision, not hers. Perhaps Dan and Susan were the same.
Convinced Dan wouldn’t tell, Andrea decided to buy what she’d found. She knew it was wrong, her principles were against it. She’d even signed petitions and attended city council meetings to keep this store from opening. But everyone else was doing it, the store was already here, so what was the harm now? She sidled up to the register and paid cash; there was no point in having any tattle-tale credit card receipts hanging around.
Andrea packed her purchases into the car and hummed all the way home. She was proud of her solstice presents and looked forward to sharing them. Sure, she felt a little guilty, but….
After dinner, she lined up her pots on the windowsill and drifted off to sleep, looking forward to the next day’s events. She awoke early, but spent the day gardening and enjoying the sun. Continuing to put a positive spin on her decision, she told herself dollar stores employed people in the community, and allowed those without resources to afford what they needed. But she knew about national protests regarding more toxic ingredients in dollar store products than other cheap retail stores. She also knew salaries were not much above minimum wage, without benefits. Yet, she cherished living in an environment with few corporate chains, and supporting local independent retailers. Everyone loves a bargain, but she knew she could afford to go elsewhere, or could have chosen different gifts for the solstice.
She continued to feel guilty.
The party began at dark. Andrea placed her home-grown kale salad at the potluck table, and her succulents with the other gifts on the make-shift altar. Susan saddled over and gave her a hug. Clearly, Dan had not spoken of their encounter in the dollar store. Andrea began to breathe easier, and to enjoy the forested, moonlit surroundings.
The food was plentiful, a wide variety of fresh, organic fruits and vegetables, a feast worthy of any solstice celebration. As the moon rose, the chatter diminished. The sounds of music could be heard through the night air. Some came from instruments—flutes, recorders, drums. Other sounds seemed to float from the unknown. Harmonic voices joined, while people began removing their clothes and slowly approaching the altar. The beat grew louder. Dancing increased in tempo and frenzy. Andrea moved with the others, her ample bosom and long hair swaying to the sounds. Ravens, not typically nocturnal, flew overhead. Witches were there. And goddesses. She felt Mother Earth all around her. Then she knew what was right. She must live her principles. She felt it in her heart: no more cheating, and no more dollar stores.
The day before the annual Spring Solstice party, Andrea Marks, this year’s hostess, shocked herself by parking in front of the Dollar Store. Andrea had decided to pot some of her succulents as a gift to each of the ten participants, her women friends. In the spirit of rejuvenation she searched town for pots in thrift stores, nurseries, and drug stores, but could not find enough similar vessels at the right price.
The event, an evening potluck with champagne, candles and affirmations, would conclude with what appeared as a coven of witches dancing around a fire pit.
Frustrated, and too late for an internet purchase, she sat in her Prius and battled her conscience about whether to enter the store full of cheap third world products, manufactured with unfair labor practices, ushered in by the National Fair Trade Act, and General Agreement on Tariffs and Trade. That was a few decades ago, and Andrea had launched letter campaigns to battle against both.
Desperate for pots, Andrea rationalized there was no harm in checking it out. Maybe it would give her some background for a story or, better, an expose. At the front window she perused the daily specials. Citrus Solve, $1, Wrapping paper, $1, solar path lights, $1, Q-tips, $1 —surprisingly useful stuff.
She entered, got a cart and wheeled cautiously to the seasonal merchandise. Pausing at a nice artificial flower display, if one went in for cheesy household bling, she moved further into the Spring section where Easter hopped up in happy hues, and children skipped around indulgent mothers. Afterall, why not, with Felt Bunnies, $1each?
She found herself in front of a huge display of pastel ceramic six inch pots, $1 each. Perfect. Then, paper napkins printed with tulips, and the quote, “Wine is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy.” Ben Franklin. Who could argue with him, she thought, wondering what “Penny saved, penny earned,” Franklin, would have thought about the Dollar Store. Would Ben have voted for GAT or NAFTA?
Ducking down the next aisle, she ran into Dan, her political activist neighbor’s husband, perusing the reading glasses. He peered through a scratched and broken pair, and asked her to help him find the 225’s. “I buy them by the dozen—go through them fast in the building trade.” Dan glanced down at the pots in her basket. Andrea could barely listen, worried about Dan telling his wife, Susan, about their encounter in the Dollar Store. Susan would be at the Spring Solstice gathering tomorrow.
Finisher—Susan Lundgren
She finished helping Dan, and wheeled her cart toward the front of the store. Then it struck her, maybe he made secret visits here without telling Susan, or perhaps they had an agreement that it was acceptable as long as it was never mentioned? Dan certainly showed no embarrassment when Andrea helped him with his purchases. Perhaps it was like their vegan friends Sara and James. James cheated, put cow’s milk in his coffee and snuck an occasional frozen yogurt when Sara wasn’t around. “Don’t tell Sara,” he’d say. She knew he did this, but felt it was his decision, not hers. Perhaps Dan and Susan were the same.
Convinced Dan wouldn’t tell, Andrea decided to buy what she’d found. She knew it was wrong, her principles were against it. She’d even signed petitions and attended city council meetings to keep this store from opening. But everyone else was doing it, the store was already here, so what was the harm now? She sidled up to the register and paid cash; there was no point in having any tattle-tale credit card receipts hanging around.
Andrea packed her purchases into the car and hummed all the way home. She was proud of her solstice presents and looked forward to sharing them. Sure, she felt a little guilty, but….
After dinner, she lined up her pots on the windowsill and drifted off to sleep, looking forward to the next day’s events. She awoke early, but spent the day gardening and enjoying the sun. Continuing to put a positive spin on her decision, she told herself dollar stores employed people in the community, and allowed those without resources to afford what they needed. But she knew about national protests regarding more toxic ingredients in dollar store products than other cheap retail stores. She also knew salaries were not much above minimum wage, without benefits. Yet, she cherished living in an environment with few corporate chains, and supporting local independent retailers. Everyone loves a bargain, but she knew she could afford to go elsewhere, or could have chosen different gifts for the solstice.
She continued to feel guilty.
The party began at dark. Andrea placed her home-grown kale salad at the potluck table, and her succulents with the other gifts on the make-shift altar. Susan saddled over and gave her a hug. Clearly, Dan had not spoken of their encounter in the dollar store. Andrea began to breathe easier, and to enjoy the forested, moonlit surroundings.
The food was plentiful, a wide variety of fresh, organic fruits and vegetables, a feast worthy of any solstice celebration. As the moon rose, the chatter diminished. The sounds of music could be heard through the night air. Some came from instruments—flutes, recorders, drums. Other sounds seemed to float from the unknown. Harmonic voices joined, while people began removing their clothes and slowly approaching the altar. The beat grew louder. Dancing increased in tempo and frenzy. Andrea moved with the others, her ample bosom and long hair swaying to the sounds. Ravens, not typically nocturnal, flew overhead. Witches were there. And goddesses. She felt Mother Earth all around her. Then she knew what was right. She must live her principles. She felt it in her heart: no more cheating, and no more dollar stores.
“The Elves of Aisle Eight”
Starter: Les Cizek
Finisher: Notty Bumbo
Starter: Les Cizek
Finisher: Notty Bumbo
Starter – Les Cizek
Pitster was seconds away from a complete breakdown. His five-foot, eight-inch frame shook in the cold, damp weather. His stomach growled; he was exhausted from lack of sleep and now his stash of cocaine was too damp to snort. He needed a line in the worst way, but the cigar box he used to store his blow had not kept it dry.
Pitster grabbed a pinch and rubbed it along his lower gum. That helped. He did it again. His mind cleared and he resolved to find an efficient, airtight container for his valuable white lady. He slid out of his 1977 Ford van in the Safeway parking lot, almost colliding with his buddy Kargo. six-foot, six-inch, wrapped in camo pants and jacket.
Kargo gave his pal a hug. “How you doing, man.”
Pister told him and Kargo agreed a new stash box was essential. He suggested the Dollar Store, which he claimed was a good place for many things.
Five minutes later Pitster was there. He had never been inside a Dollar Store and was awed by the scope of the place. He started searching and was soon confused by the confusion of products, scattered without any perceivable order, and zero employees to help you find anything. He asked a large, possibly homeless person if he might know where the plastic containers were. That person simply got up into his face and very slowly recited, “Mary had a little lamb”.
He left and met Kargo at home. They got right into the damp nose candy.
Pitster said, “The dollar store sucks.”
“So let’s do something about it.” Kargo rubbed another finger-full into his gums.
Pitster said “How about we rearrange that store , make things easy to find, add reason and logic to the shopping experience.”
They were both about as high as 757s at this point.
“Easy Peasy! Kargo said. “But what about the guard?”
“ There’s no one home when they’re open. Sure not going to be anyone around at night.”
They made their move at 4 AM. Using his long past, but not forgotten, military skills, Pitster got them through the back door.
“No alarm, no people, “ Pitster said, “Told you so.”
Using merchandise carts , the two got to work. Starting in the food department they moved fast and furious for the next couple of hours. Their manic activity was fueled by many trips to the container of Bolivian Marching Powder they’d left in the toy department.
Astonishing results were produced. The transformation, to Pitster’s not very critical eye, elevated the showroom from chaos to order. “No more confusion, no more disorder”, he crowed to Kargo. “All replaced with elegance and beauty. “
“We’re fucking geniuses.” Kargo said. Way past his red line, he grabbed a plastic lid off a five gallon bucket and spun it, Frisbee style, across the store.
Finisher—Notty Bumbo
In the dim light, he lost visual contact with his discus, and heard it clatter off the top of a shelf, followed by a large series of crashes. Pitster shouted in surprise, while Kargo just yelled “Shit!” They both ran toward the sound, and found themselves confronted by half of aisle eight covered in various fluids, powders, and containers. Kargo’s improvised Frisbee had hit the household cleaning products shelf and set off a chain reaction.
“Damn! Now we have to clean up this mess, we can’t just leave it like this”. Kargo immediately appropriated a mop from the adjoining section – apparently as a direct result of their incredible reorganization skills. Pitster didn’t say a word, just pitched in. They opened some trash bags to hold all the debris, grabbed a nice red bucket from the next aisle, and began mopping up the mess. In their highly elevated state they barely noticed the night passing. It wasn’t till they both perceived a change in the light that it was nearly dawn. It took most of another hour to finalize their grand design and complete the scrub-down of the entire store.
“Not bad,” said Kargo. “Maybe this place will get a little respect now, eh?”
Pitster just grunted. He was starting to come down enough to realize they needed to leave. “Come on, dude, we don’t want to get caught here. Think of what it would do to our community standing.”
Kargo laughed for a minute, grabbing a couple of Snicker’s Bars on the way out. They were careful to wipe their prints off the door on the way out. No reason to get any credit for their work, both thought in their addled state. Neither seemed to realize the entire store was filled with their fingerprints. He gave one of the bars to Pitster, who consumed it in two bites.
“You know,” he said around the chocolate and caramel, “We could start a business, organizing and improving store layouts all over the county. This is like a resume, the Dollar Store. It would be like free advertising.
Kargo laughed again. “Yeah, right. You and me? We’re a couple of coke heads, and everyone knows it. Especially the police, my friend. So let’s just get going. I need some sleep.”
Eleanor Best arrived just at seven-thirty with the key, and entered the Dollar Store to start her day. She flicked on the lights without really paying attention, walked over to register one and checked the cash drawer, pulling out the dummy tray. Walking back to the office, she opened the safe, exchanging the dummy drawer for a fully-prepared one, and returned to the front of the store. After placing the fresh tray inside the register, she began emptying the trash containers beneath each register.
As she started down the center aisle to take the trash bag to the back, she began feeling uneasy, and about halfway down the aisle, slowed and started looking all around her. Nothing appeared the same as it had when she’d left the store yesterday. In fact, everything looked, well, nice. It looked clean – cleaner than she had ever seen it. And everything had been moved – absolutely everything. She didn’t know if she should panic, or laugh. Dave had closed up last night, and she knew damn well Dave could barely operate the cash register: he would never be accused of cleaning anything.
Still, she thought, maybe I ought to call the police. But almost with the same breath, she shrugged her shoulders and brushed it off. Who would care? Even if a few things were stolen – which she suspected but didn’t bother to confirm—it seemed a small price to pay for such a fine result. Her only concern was, she’d no idea who to thank, even if she did have to clean up some spilled white powder the intruders missed just off aisle eight.
Pitster was seconds away from a complete breakdown. His five-foot, eight-inch frame shook in the cold, damp weather. His stomach growled; he was exhausted from lack of sleep and now his stash of cocaine was too damp to snort. He needed a line in the worst way, but the cigar box he used to store his blow had not kept it dry.
Pitster grabbed a pinch and rubbed it along his lower gum. That helped. He did it again. His mind cleared and he resolved to find an efficient, airtight container for his valuable white lady. He slid out of his 1977 Ford van in the Safeway parking lot, almost colliding with his buddy Kargo. six-foot, six-inch, wrapped in camo pants and jacket.
Kargo gave his pal a hug. “How you doing, man.”
Pister told him and Kargo agreed a new stash box was essential. He suggested the Dollar Store, which he claimed was a good place for many things.
Five minutes later Pitster was there. He had never been inside a Dollar Store and was awed by the scope of the place. He started searching and was soon confused by the confusion of products, scattered without any perceivable order, and zero employees to help you find anything. He asked a large, possibly homeless person if he might know where the plastic containers were. That person simply got up into his face and very slowly recited, “Mary had a little lamb”.
He left and met Kargo at home. They got right into the damp nose candy.
Pitster said, “The dollar store sucks.”
“So let’s do something about it.” Kargo rubbed another finger-full into his gums.
Pitster said “How about we rearrange that store , make things easy to find, add reason and logic to the shopping experience.”
They were both about as high as 757s at this point.
“Easy Peasy! Kargo said. “But what about the guard?”
“ There’s no one home when they’re open. Sure not going to be anyone around at night.”
They made their move at 4 AM. Using his long past, but not forgotten, military skills, Pitster got them through the back door.
“No alarm, no people, “ Pitster said, “Told you so.”
Using merchandise carts , the two got to work. Starting in the food department they moved fast and furious for the next couple of hours. Their manic activity was fueled by many trips to the container of Bolivian Marching Powder they’d left in the toy department.
Astonishing results were produced. The transformation, to Pitster’s not very critical eye, elevated the showroom from chaos to order. “No more confusion, no more disorder”, he crowed to Kargo. “All replaced with elegance and beauty. “
“We’re fucking geniuses.” Kargo said. Way past his red line, he grabbed a plastic lid off a five gallon bucket and spun it, Frisbee style, across the store.
Finisher—Notty Bumbo
In the dim light, he lost visual contact with his discus, and heard it clatter off the top of a shelf, followed by a large series of crashes. Pitster shouted in surprise, while Kargo just yelled “Shit!” They both ran toward the sound, and found themselves confronted by half of aisle eight covered in various fluids, powders, and containers. Kargo’s improvised Frisbee had hit the household cleaning products shelf and set off a chain reaction.
“Damn! Now we have to clean up this mess, we can’t just leave it like this”. Kargo immediately appropriated a mop from the adjoining section – apparently as a direct result of their incredible reorganization skills. Pitster didn’t say a word, just pitched in. They opened some trash bags to hold all the debris, grabbed a nice red bucket from the next aisle, and began mopping up the mess. In their highly elevated state they barely noticed the night passing. It wasn’t till they both perceived a change in the light that it was nearly dawn. It took most of another hour to finalize their grand design and complete the scrub-down of the entire store.
“Not bad,” said Kargo. “Maybe this place will get a little respect now, eh?”
Pitster just grunted. He was starting to come down enough to realize they needed to leave. “Come on, dude, we don’t want to get caught here. Think of what it would do to our community standing.”
Kargo laughed for a minute, grabbing a couple of Snicker’s Bars on the way out. They were careful to wipe their prints off the door on the way out. No reason to get any credit for their work, both thought in their addled state. Neither seemed to realize the entire store was filled with their fingerprints. He gave one of the bars to Pitster, who consumed it in two bites.
“You know,” he said around the chocolate and caramel, “We could start a business, organizing and improving store layouts all over the county. This is like a resume, the Dollar Store. It would be like free advertising.
Kargo laughed again. “Yeah, right. You and me? We’re a couple of coke heads, and everyone knows it. Especially the police, my friend. So let’s just get going. I need some sleep.”
Eleanor Best arrived just at seven-thirty with the key, and entered the Dollar Store to start her day. She flicked on the lights without really paying attention, walked over to register one and checked the cash drawer, pulling out the dummy tray. Walking back to the office, she opened the safe, exchanging the dummy drawer for a fully-prepared one, and returned to the front of the store. After placing the fresh tray inside the register, she began emptying the trash containers beneath each register.
As she started down the center aisle to take the trash bag to the back, she began feeling uneasy, and about halfway down the aisle, slowed and started looking all around her. Nothing appeared the same as it had when she’d left the store yesterday. In fact, everything looked, well, nice. It looked clean – cleaner than she had ever seen it. And everything had been moved – absolutely everything. She didn’t know if she should panic, or laugh. Dave had closed up last night, and she knew damn well Dave could barely operate the cash register: he would never be accused of cleaning anything.
Still, she thought, maybe I ought to call the police. But almost with the same breath, she shrugged her shoulders and brushed it off. Who would care? Even if a few things were stolen – which she suspected but didn’t bother to confirm—it seemed a small price to pay for such a fine result. Her only concern was, she’d no idea who to thank, even if she did have to clean up some spilled white powder the intruders missed just off aisle eight.
“Four O'clock at the Dollar Store”
Starter: Leslie Wahlquist
Finisher: Amie McGee
Starter: Leslie Wahlquist
Finisher: Amie McGee
Starter – Leslie Wahlquist
I am hoping to tie Polaris’s leash to the bike rack and run in quick-like, but when I poke my head inside the checkout lines are stretched half way down the aisles. With two cashiers, this could be a twenty-minute proposition. Who would have thought four o’clock at the Dollar Store would be so crowded? Every morning we pass by on the half-mile loop and poop course I’ve charted out for Polaris to do his business, and the place is deserted.
I look down at him; my willing puppy with paws the size of teacups. He’s beautiful, and I’m worried about someone taking him. I also know he’d happily trot off with anyone smelling remotely of food. There are a lot of sketchy, stinky characters loitering around the parking lot right now, some in beater cars with out of state plates.
I only need a dozen wineglasses. I’m not shopping, just grabbing. My “welcome-to-the-neighborhood-hot-single-guy party with local wine and cheese and chocolate, but mostly wine” begins at five-thirty. I still have to fill the trays, the ice buckets, find the right music, straighten the house, and slip into the little red number I bought yesterday. And now I have Jason – so add to the list, settle a four year old in front of a movie with a mountain of unhealthy snacks. Damn my ex-husband—he bailed on Jason’s overnight at the last minute; he thinks our divorce makes him an ex-father. “got plans” he texts, “droping him by later”. “Before 5 or after 8” I text back in all caps, followed with three exclamation points and the fiercest looking scowly-faced emoji I can find.
I really need wineglasses. I’m going in. “Polaris, sit.” I hold my palm up to his face, “Stay.” I command, threading the leash through the bike rack while designing in my mind a kryptonite canine harness with combination locks.
A scrappy girl with flaming red hair is standing next to the newspaper rack, watching. She has two backpacks— one on rollers, and the other an authentic spend-a-week-in-the-mountains affair. “Cute doggie,” she approaches holding out a french fry. “You like cold fries, sweetie?” Polaris accepts it, and begins the wiggle-waggle, licking her hand. She scratches his curly blonde head. “Aww, she’s soft. I used to have my very own dog. She was yellow too, like this one.” This girl smells of campfire smoke and when she makes eye contact her multi-colored irises remind me of exploding fireworks.
“He’s a boy,” is all I can think of to say.
Finisher – Amie McGee
The automatic door glides open and after the plastic air whooshes by I hear the fear in the cashier’s voice.
“Please,” is all she says as the doors close again.
Polaris growls and I turn from the redheaded girl to see the glass shatter. My sunglasses shield my eyes, but I feel the sting of shards on my face and chest.
Someone screams. I can’t track it. The automatic door tries to open but catches on the debris and grinds the fragments into the tract with a noise that makes my teeth hurt. It reacts the only way it can and rolls back to close where it hits a chunk of its own wreckage then moves itself into a Möbius strip, chawing back and forth the few dozen inches, never able to complete any of its purposes.
Polaris’s barking pulls my attention and I turn back to him to make sure he isn’t hurt. The girl, sprinkled with blood freckles, reaches for me. Her eyes have changed in that moment from chaos to focus and I ask her, “Are you okay?”
“I am,” she responds. She takes my arm and leads me away from the excitement. I stumble. She catches me and lowers me to the cement.
“My chest hurts.” I think a bigger piece must have cut me.
“You’re okay, just sit.” The girl is a little fuzzy, the sun shines from right behind her. Her hair glows like a mane and I nod at her as she helps me down. She turns from me. She must be whispering because her voice sounds muffled, “Call 9-1-1.”
“For me?” I ask.
“Try not to talk. I’m going to put pressure on you here.” She’s pulled something from her pack and wrapped it around her hand. Her fist looks like a red-plaid boxing glove and as she pushes into my chest she holds my stare and I see that the multi-color of her irises is actually only the two different colors, the left a bright blue and the right light-brown, almost yellow. Just like David Bowie.
“Ground control to Major Tom,” I sing. She nods and smiles at me. “I think I’d like to lean back,” I say as I try to tip back on my elbows. The girl helps me, I was wrong about her, she’s quite nice, not sketchy at all. The scrunching of the sliding door is so loud. “Can you do something about that door?”
“Try to save your breath,” she says as she puts something under my head.
“Thank you, you’re so kind.” I take her hand, the one she’s pulled from under my head.
“Shhhh.” She squeezes my hand and around the crunching of the glass I hear sirens. “You’ll be okay, now,” she says and smiles, but it doesn’t reach her Bowie eyes.
I turn my head and reach my hand for my puppy, gawd I love that puppy! I wiggle my fingers at him, and he stretches to lick me.
“Polaris,” I say to the girl. “His name is Polaris.”
I am hoping to tie Polaris’s leash to the bike rack and run in quick-like, but when I poke my head inside the checkout lines are stretched half way down the aisles. With two cashiers, this could be a twenty-minute proposition. Who would have thought four o’clock at the Dollar Store would be so crowded? Every morning we pass by on the half-mile loop and poop course I’ve charted out for Polaris to do his business, and the place is deserted.
I look down at him; my willing puppy with paws the size of teacups. He’s beautiful, and I’m worried about someone taking him. I also know he’d happily trot off with anyone smelling remotely of food. There are a lot of sketchy, stinky characters loitering around the parking lot right now, some in beater cars with out of state plates.
I only need a dozen wineglasses. I’m not shopping, just grabbing. My “welcome-to-the-neighborhood-hot-single-guy party with local wine and cheese and chocolate, but mostly wine” begins at five-thirty. I still have to fill the trays, the ice buckets, find the right music, straighten the house, and slip into the little red number I bought yesterday. And now I have Jason – so add to the list, settle a four year old in front of a movie with a mountain of unhealthy snacks. Damn my ex-husband—he bailed on Jason’s overnight at the last minute; he thinks our divorce makes him an ex-father. “got plans” he texts, “droping him by later”. “Before 5 or after 8” I text back in all caps, followed with three exclamation points and the fiercest looking scowly-faced emoji I can find.
I really need wineglasses. I’m going in. “Polaris, sit.” I hold my palm up to his face, “Stay.” I command, threading the leash through the bike rack while designing in my mind a kryptonite canine harness with combination locks.
A scrappy girl with flaming red hair is standing next to the newspaper rack, watching. She has two backpacks— one on rollers, and the other an authentic spend-a-week-in-the-mountains affair. “Cute doggie,” she approaches holding out a french fry. “You like cold fries, sweetie?” Polaris accepts it, and begins the wiggle-waggle, licking her hand. She scratches his curly blonde head. “Aww, she’s soft. I used to have my very own dog. She was yellow too, like this one.” This girl smells of campfire smoke and when she makes eye contact her multi-colored irises remind me of exploding fireworks.
“He’s a boy,” is all I can think of to say.
Finisher – Amie McGee
The automatic door glides open and after the plastic air whooshes by I hear the fear in the cashier’s voice.
“Please,” is all she says as the doors close again.
Polaris growls and I turn from the redheaded girl to see the glass shatter. My sunglasses shield my eyes, but I feel the sting of shards on my face and chest.
Someone screams. I can’t track it. The automatic door tries to open but catches on the debris and grinds the fragments into the tract with a noise that makes my teeth hurt. It reacts the only way it can and rolls back to close where it hits a chunk of its own wreckage then moves itself into a Möbius strip, chawing back and forth the few dozen inches, never able to complete any of its purposes.
Polaris’s barking pulls my attention and I turn back to him to make sure he isn’t hurt. The girl, sprinkled with blood freckles, reaches for me. Her eyes have changed in that moment from chaos to focus and I ask her, “Are you okay?”
“I am,” she responds. She takes my arm and leads me away from the excitement. I stumble. She catches me and lowers me to the cement.
“My chest hurts.” I think a bigger piece must have cut me.
“You’re okay, just sit.” The girl is a little fuzzy, the sun shines from right behind her. Her hair glows like a mane and I nod at her as she helps me down. She turns from me. She must be whispering because her voice sounds muffled, “Call 9-1-1.”
“For me?” I ask.
“Try not to talk. I’m going to put pressure on you here.” She’s pulled something from her pack and wrapped it around her hand. Her fist looks like a red-plaid boxing glove and as she pushes into my chest she holds my stare and I see that the multi-color of her irises is actually only the two different colors, the left a bright blue and the right light-brown, almost yellow. Just like David Bowie.
“Ground control to Major Tom,” I sing. She nods and smiles at me. “I think I’d like to lean back,” I say as I try to tip back on my elbows. The girl helps me, I was wrong about her, she’s quite nice, not sketchy at all. The scrunching of the sliding door is so loud. “Can you do something about that door?”
“Try to save your breath,” she says as she puts something under my head.
“Thank you, you’re so kind.” I take her hand, the one she’s pulled from under my head.
“Shhhh.” She squeezes my hand and around the crunching of the glass I hear sirens. “You’ll be okay, now,” she says and smiles, but it doesn’t reach her Bowie eyes.
I turn my head and reach my hand for my puppy, gawd I love that puppy! I wiggle my fingers at him, and he stretches to lick me.
“Polaris,” I say to the girl. “His name is Polaris.”
“Greetings, From a New Life”
Starter: Sharon Bowers
Finisher: Barry Bryan
Starter: Sharon Bowers
Finisher: Barry Bryan
Starter—Sharon Bowers
Bought it. Bought it. Bought it. Bingo, this one is new. I pulled the get-well card from the display and read: Hang in there! It’s an over used greeting, but the little tabby cat is super cute. My sister is deathly allergic to cats. I pondered this dilemma and tossed the card into my basket. Finding a new card each week for someone who’s been sick for thirteen years is not easy. I’ve become less picky, which is the reason I’m in the Dollar Store.
Sure I frequent grocery, drug, art and thrift stores for cards, but I tell you, the merchandise doesn't change much, especially not for get-well cards. My sick sister saves them all, so it is a challenge to find new ones. She is happy that I think of her, so I press on.
From my many years of shopping, I’ve noticed that greeting cards have become more elaborate and expensive. Lots of glitter, three-dimensional artwork, multiple pages, ribbon, recorded messages, buttons and fluff designed to drain your wallet. It can be hard to find a decent card for under three dollars. For Mother’s Day the card companies go wild with bling, which makes me feel doubly guilty for thinking about cost. But here at the Dollar Store, they are two for a dollar.
Honestly, I sometimes feel stuck in a time warp. Shopping, shopping for cards. Reading all the same lame jokes, saccharine wishes, and trite remarks is enough to drive me mad. At least here I’ve gotten out of my rut. Just last month I hit the jackpot and found ten new cards. Then in the checkout line, I got to talking with a friendly woman who raises rabbits. She said the little cans of milk at this store were the perfect size for feeding baby rabbits. To top it off, she told me that
her friend, who’s a carny, shops for her at other Dollar Stores around the state.
Needless to say, I was envious. I had secretly longed to have rabbits, but their constant chewing and prolific bathroom habits had stopped me. Plus having a friend who worked in a traveling carnival seemed the very pinnacle of exotic To have such a personal shopper would be simply amazing!
Finisher—Barry Bryan
Before I could stop myself, I asked for the contact info of the carny. I was shocked when she gave it to me. I kept it for weeks before I sent an email. I’d never done anything like this before. We exchanged messages and before long Mavis, the carny, was buying cards for me from Dollar Stores in towns all over the country. I was so happy with our arrangement I called my sick sister to tell her about the cards. Her condition must be worse because she said she didn’t have the energy to talk about it and we should confine our relationship to greeting cards.
I asked Mavis to call if she was ever near town. Six months later, she called out of the blue. The carnival was coming through town and she asked if she could stop by to say hello. I couldn’t believe my luck. My exotic friend was coming to my place to visit.
I planned snacks for her visit and found everything I needed at the dollar store. Pork and beans for bean dip, chips and velveta for queso. I mixed plain M&M’s with peanuts for a sugar and salt treat. There were easter napkins and paper plates on sale and wonderful tinted plastic stemware for ginger ale. I had everything set up for the big day. I was very nervous. Would someone as worldly as Mavis be put off by my meager offerings?
When her motorhome and concession trailer stopped in front of my trailer space, I hoped all my neighbors would be impressed by my new friend. She was very down to earth and loved the dips. She entertained me with stories about her tattoos and the towns where she got them. Her language is very colorful even though I don’t understand all of the words. She invited me into her motorhome for tea. It was imported tea and very delicious.
I guess I had worn myself out preparing for her visit. When I woke up in the motorhome the sun was coming up and we were on an interstate highway headed to the next carnival. Mavis said she would drop me off when we got close to my home again. It’s been two months now, but we will be near there any day. I missed my home, but now I fry corn dogs in the concession trailer. I invented the onion and jalapeno corn dog. When I made a dog with chili inside instead of a weiner she gave me a carny tee shirt with “corn dog bitch” printed on the back. I wear it when I’m on duty
I still send cards to my sister, but now I’m making my own greeting cards with photos of the carnys trimmed with fur from cast off stuffed animals. I’m working on a new line with photos of corn dog figures in humorous poses. When I get home I’ll let the Dollar Store sell them. They’re very popular here on the circuit.
Bought it. Bought it. Bought it. Bingo, this one is new. I pulled the get-well card from the display and read: Hang in there! It’s an over used greeting, but the little tabby cat is super cute. My sister is deathly allergic to cats. I pondered this dilemma and tossed the card into my basket. Finding a new card each week for someone who’s been sick for thirteen years is not easy. I’ve become less picky, which is the reason I’m in the Dollar Store.
Sure I frequent grocery, drug, art and thrift stores for cards, but I tell you, the merchandise doesn't change much, especially not for get-well cards. My sick sister saves them all, so it is a challenge to find new ones. She is happy that I think of her, so I press on.
From my many years of shopping, I’ve noticed that greeting cards have become more elaborate and expensive. Lots of glitter, three-dimensional artwork, multiple pages, ribbon, recorded messages, buttons and fluff designed to drain your wallet. It can be hard to find a decent card for under three dollars. For Mother’s Day the card companies go wild with bling, which makes me feel doubly guilty for thinking about cost. But here at the Dollar Store, they are two for a dollar.
Honestly, I sometimes feel stuck in a time warp. Shopping, shopping for cards. Reading all the same lame jokes, saccharine wishes, and trite remarks is enough to drive me mad. At least here I’ve gotten out of my rut. Just last month I hit the jackpot and found ten new cards. Then in the checkout line, I got to talking with a friendly woman who raises rabbits. She said the little cans of milk at this store were the perfect size for feeding baby rabbits. To top it off, she told me that
her friend, who’s a carny, shops for her at other Dollar Stores around the state.
Needless to say, I was envious. I had secretly longed to have rabbits, but their constant chewing and prolific bathroom habits had stopped me. Plus having a friend who worked in a traveling carnival seemed the very pinnacle of exotic To have such a personal shopper would be simply amazing!
Finisher—Barry Bryan
Before I could stop myself, I asked for the contact info of the carny. I was shocked when she gave it to me. I kept it for weeks before I sent an email. I’d never done anything like this before. We exchanged messages and before long Mavis, the carny, was buying cards for me from Dollar Stores in towns all over the country. I was so happy with our arrangement I called my sick sister to tell her about the cards. Her condition must be worse because she said she didn’t have the energy to talk about it and we should confine our relationship to greeting cards.
I asked Mavis to call if she was ever near town. Six months later, she called out of the blue. The carnival was coming through town and she asked if she could stop by to say hello. I couldn’t believe my luck. My exotic friend was coming to my place to visit.
I planned snacks for her visit and found everything I needed at the dollar store. Pork and beans for bean dip, chips and velveta for queso. I mixed plain M&M’s with peanuts for a sugar and salt treat. There were easter napkins and paper plates on sale and wonderful tinted plastic stemware for ginger ale. I had everything set up for the big day. I was very nervous. Would someone as worldly as Mavis be put off by my meager offerings?
When her motorhome and concession trailer stopped in front of my trailer space, I hoped all my neighbors would be impressed by my new friend. She was very down to earth and loved the dips. She entertained me with stories about her tattoos and the towns where she got them. Her language is very colorful even though I don’t understand all of the words. She invited me into her motorhome for tea. It was imported tea and very delicious.
I guess I had worn myself out preparing for her visit. When I woke up in the motorhome the sun was coming up and we were on an interstate highway headed to the next carnival. Mavis said she would drop me off when we got close to my home again. It’s been two months now, but we will be near there any day. I missed my home, but now I fry corn dogs in the concession trailer. I invented the onion and jalapeno corn dog. When I made a dog with chili inside instead of a weiner she gave me a carny tee shirt with “corn dog bitch” printed on the back. I wear it when I’m on duty
I still send cards to my sister, but now I’m making my own greeting cards with photos of the carnys trimmed with fur from cast off stuffed animals. I’m working on a new line with photos of corn dog figures in humorous poses. When I get home I’ll let the Dollar Store sell them. They’re very popular here on the circuit.
“Growing Things”
Starter: Donald Shephard
Finisher: Sharon Gilligan
Starter: Donald Shephard
Finisher: Sharon Gilligan
Starter – Donald Shephard
Ezie took the afternoon off from trimming Michael’s cannabis plants in the humid greenhouse to enjoy the cool clean air under the redwoods. Beds of trillium saddened her when she noticed their petals had faded to purple, hopefully but not necessarily, fertile. She slid on her butt down a slope and regained control by the Navarro River, where white alders sprouted catkins. Light dappled the pink-flowered wood sorrel reminding her she had not so much lost as hurled her virginity at a high school boy here fifteen years previously. Perhaps her son brought his schoolmates to a similar scene for the same purpose maintaining a family tradition.
After that first time, Dr. Guillemot had advised what he called “termination,” but Ezie and her hippie mother, Feather Roundheels, decided against it on that occasion. The good doctor’s advice had won the day five times in the following years. The young woman who assisted Dr. Guillemot had warned her that repeated terminations sometimes caused problems. Now Michael had moved in with her, they wanted children, but a voice in her head nagged about infertility.
The angle of sunlight sparkling onto the river, told Ezie she must get back to Highway 128 and hitchhike into Fort Bragg if she wanted to arrive before the shops closed. Tourists rarely volunteered a ride, but a local always accepted her cheerful company. Her neighbor, Pugeot Patty, named for the site of her conception, saw Ezie sitting on a hollow log beside the road and stopped.
“Where to, Ezie?”
“The Dollar Store, please.”
They chatted about the new laws governing marijuana growers and the depressed prices. The car careened towards the bluff and Ezie gently pulled the steering wheel down on her side as she often did at that spot while driving with Patty.
The old lady nodded, “Thanks. Life is still precious.”
Taxes and the difficulty of hiring good trimmers occupied them through Albion and Little River. Gentrification filled their time passing Mendocino and Caspar.
Pugeot Patty glanced at her passenger, “What are you spending your ill-gotten gains on?”
“I need a pregnancy tester and for once I hope to get a positive result.”
Laughter crinkled Patty’s crow’s feet, “Nothing I’ll ever need. If we are supposed to get older and wiser, my wisdom has been backordered. Anyway, I haven’t had my chimney swept since my husband eloped with his proctologist thirty years ago.”
In the Boatyard, Patty yanked on the handbrake, “Good luck with your purchase. I’ll pick you up here at four o’clock.”
Inside the store, Ezie blew out her breath with relief when she saw a stack of pregnancy tests on display. The checkout clerk, who Ezie reckoned had recently escaped from a meth rehab clinic, said, “A dollar eight,” in the voice of an automaton. “Damn taxes again. I only brought a dollar.”
Without moving a single facial muscle, the woman fished a nickel and three pennies from a cup and grabbed the dollar. Standing outside the store and still disheartened by the clerk’s destroyed joy in life, Ezie waved at Pugeot Patty.
Finisher – Sharon Gilligan
China watched Ezie through the smudged glass doors as she paced outside waiting for her ride. She felt like going out to confront her about the obvious sneer Ezie had aimed her way. China knew she looked like hell. She'd spent an hour puking this morning before work. It was clear Ezie thought she was better than China, but she knew some things about her, too. China's cousin used to work for some doctor in town, and she'd told her Ezie had been a regular patient for a particular procedure. So what was her plan this time? Would Ezie confirm her condition and get rid of “it” again, or was she planning to have the baby just because she thinks she found a guy who'll stick around.
China looked at the clock and immediately felt better. Her shift was finally over. She pulled the CLOSED sign from under the cash register. She was about to put it on the conveyor belt when Ed Merkle, a lifelong resident and his five year old grandson showed up at her station. Ed adjusted his sagging desert camo pants and told the boy to put the sheet of cardboard holding a Wiffle ball set on the belt. Reluctantly he released the set with two balls and a bat almost as tall as he was.
“Afternoon, China. Hope you don't mind us jumping into your line. Terry's antsy to get to the ice cream store, but you look like you're ready to knock off.”
“Nah, it's okay Ed. Nice to end the day with a friendly face.” She glanced at Ezie's back as she slid into Patty's car.
China reached over the counter and pushed hair out of Terry's eyes. “You might have to get a haircut so's you can see to smack that ball.” The boy's mother was in jail, and Ed did his best by Terry, but he did need a haircut and, China guessed, by the way he was standing on the sides of his feet, new shoes. Before she could decide if it was the right thing to do, China said, “By the way, Ed I heard the boss say we was getting in a big shipment of kids' shoes next week.”
Ed's eyes glanced up at China, then nodded. “Preciate that info, gal.”
When Ed and the boy were gone, China put the sign at the end of the belt. She grabbed one of the pregnancy tests off the display and rang up the dollar and eight cent sale to herself. As she made her way to the locker room around the boxes and pallets in the aisle, she couldn't help but smile. If both tests she sold today came up positive, Ezie's baby would have a half brother or sister. She wondered which of them Michael would end up staying with.
Ezie took the afternoon off from trimming Michael’s cannabis plants in the humid greenhouse to enjoy the cool clean air under the redwoods. Beds of trillium saddened her when she noticed their petals had faded to purple, hopefully but not necessarily, fertile. She slid on her butt down a slope and regained control by the Navarro River, where white alders sprouted catkins. Light dappled the pink-flowered wood sorrel reminding her she had not so much lost as hurled her virginity at a high school boy here fifteen years previously. Perhaps her son brought his schoolmates to a similar scene for the same purpose maintaining a family tradition.
After that first time, Dr. Guillemot had advised what he called “termination,” but Ezie and her hippie mother, Feather Roundheels, decided against it on that occasion. The good doctor’s advice had won the day five times in the following years. The young woman who assisted Dr. Guillemot had warned her that repeated terminations sometimes caused problems. Now Michael had moved in with her, they wanted children, but a voice in her head nagged about infertility.
The angle of sunlight sparkling onto the river, told Ezie she must get back to Highway 128 and hitchhike into Fort Bragg if she wanted to arrive before the shops closed. Tourists rarely volunteered a ride, but a local always accepted her cheerful company. Her neighbor, Pugeot Patty, named for the site of her conception, saw Ezie sitting on a hollow log beside the road and stopped.
“Where to, Ezie?”
“The Dollar Store, please.”
They chatted about the new laws governing marijuana growers and the depressed prices. The car careened towards the bluff and Ezie gently pulled the steering wheel down on her side as she often did at that spot while driving with Patty.
The old lady nodded, “Thanks. Life is still precious.”
Taxes and the difficulty of hiring good trimmers occupied them through Albion and Little River. Gentrification filled their time passing Mendocino and Caspar.
Pugeot Patty glanced at her passenger, “What are you spending your ill-gotten gains on?”
“I need a pregnancy tester and for once I hope to get a positive result.”
Laughter crinkled Patty’s crow’s feet, “Nothing I’ll ever need. If we are supposed to get older and wiser, my wisdom has been backordered. Anyway, I haven’t had my chimney swept since my husband eloped with his proctologist thirty years ago.”
In the Boatyard, Patty yanked on the handbrake, “Good luck with your purchase. I’ll pick you up here at four o’clock.”
Inside the store, Ezie blew out her breath with relief when she saw a stack of pregnancy tests on display. The checkout clerk, who Ezie reckoned had recently escaped from a meth rehab clinic, said, “A dollar eight,” in the voice of an automaton. “Damn taxes again. I only brought a dollar.”
Without moving a single facial muscle, the woman fished a nickel and three pennies from a cup and grabbed the dollar. Standing outside the store and still disheartened by the clerk’s destroyed joy in life, Ezie waved at Pugeot Patty.
Finisher – Sharon Gilligan
China watched Ezie through the smudged glass doors as she paced outside waiting for her ride. She felt like going out to confront her about the obvious sneer Ezie had aimed her way. China knew she looked like hell. She'd spent an hour puking this morning before work. It was clear Ezie thought she was better than China, but she knew some things about her, too. China's cousin used to work for some doctor in town, and she'd told her Ezie had been a regular patient for a particular procedure. So what was her plan this time? Would Ezie confirm her condition and get rid of “it” again, or was she planning to have the baby just because she thinks she found a guy who'll stick around.
China looked at the clock and immediately felt better. Her shift was finally over. She pulled the CLOSED sign from under the cash register. She was about to put it on the conveyor belt when Ed Merkle, a lifelong resident and his five year old grandson showed up at her station. Ed adjusted his sagging desert camo pants and told the boy to put the sheet of cardboard holding a Wiffle ball set on the belt. Reluctantly he released the set with two balls and a bat almost as tall as he was.
“Afternoon, China. Hope you don't mind us jumping into your line. Terry's antsy to get to the ice cream store, but you look like you're ready to knock off.”
“Nah, it's okay Ed. Nice to end the day with a friendly face.” She glanced at Ezie's back as she slid into Patty's car.
China reached over the counter and pushed hair out of Terry's eyes. “You might have to get a haircut so's you can see to smack that ball.” The boy's mother was in jail, and Ed did his best by Terry, but he did need a haircut and, China guessed, by the way he was standing on the sides of his feet, new shoes. Before she could decide if it was the right thing to do, China said, “By the way, Ed I heard the boss say we was getting in a big shipment of kids' shoes next week.”
Ed's eyes glanced up at China, then nodded. “Preciate that info, gal.”
When Ed and the boy were gone, China put the sign at the end of the belt. She grabbed one of the pregnancy tests off the display and rang up the dollar and eight cent sale to herself. As she made her way to the locker room around the boxes and pallets in the aisle, she couldn't help but smile. If both tests she sold today came up positive, Ezie's baby would have a half brother or sister. She wondered which of them Michael would end up staying with.
“Just a Word”
Starter: Doug Fortier
Finisher: Nona Smith
Starter: Doug Fortier
Finisher: Nona Smith
Starter – Doug Fortier
I’ve been a bartender and a brawler, but that life nearly killed me. Hitting rock bottom at twenty-seven looked like sleeping in my junker pickup, taking showers and mooching meals where I could. Months of cold nights and losing thirty pounds turned my head around.
I cleaned up enough to wrangle a job stocking shelves at the Dollar Store after hours. The manager took a chance, saw what I could do, then helped me rent one of the rooms above the Golden West bar. After six months of showing up and getting the job done on the night shift, he boosted my pay and put me on days where I worked even harder.
Six months after that, with cash dignity, I dared test my sobriety with a few glasses of Old Rasputin. I left the party in the brewpub to walk back to the room, maybe wobbling a bit, but proud of myself for staying away from the girls and thinking about the next day on the register at the Dollar Store.
Quick steps close behind me in the darkest part of the alley caused me to duck a punch. Aimed for the side of my head, it could have knocked me out. An arm bounced off my shoulder and a guy in a white T-shirt smelling of sweat surged past me, smaller but just as muscled, with tattooed brown skin and black hair like mine in the same buzz cut.
“Speed wins,” had become my mantra for several reasons. Before he stopped I was at him and did what he tried on me—twice, two boxed ears to scramble his brains, then a knee in the gut to put him on the ground.
He groaned before muttering something in Spanish, but I didn’t understand because I’d never learned it, even though it was all around me growing up. I took two steps away. He said, “I know where you work, pendejo.” That part I understood. I spun and stepped in as if to land a kick. Instead of taking it, he lurched to his feet and scuttled away, clutching his stomach.
I became super-watchful in the days that followed, not missing a face, checking over my shoulder, always looking for the trap.
Finisher – Nona Smith
I steered away from solitary corners in the store, scanned the entrance every time a new customer entered. I kept a box cutter in my pocket, although I wasn’t sure I could actually use it to defend myself. Cutting a person seemed pretty brutal.
After that night in the alley, when my shift ended, I loped around the shopping center before heading for my pickup. After all, the jerk said he knew where I worked, not where I lived. I wanted to keep it that way and figured I could spot a tail if I hung out for a while before going home. I strolled through Harvest Market and O’Reilly’s, spinning around every so often to check my back. I also thought it was a good idea to stay away from the alley. And the booze. The latter a bigger challenge being I lived above a bar.
Four days passed, then five. A week and nothing. No shadowy figures, no gangs of young thugs. Just the lingering recollection of the guy’s sweat, my bruised knuckles and the refrain that kept echoing in my head: “I know where you work, pendejo.”
It didn’t seem necessary, but I threw the deadbolt and secured the chain whenever I was alone in my room. Which, it came to my attention during the nights after the mugging attempt in this year of sobriety, was a lot. Except for my manager at the Dollar Store, I hadn’t made one single friend. No one I could confide in…or brag to about my quick, defensive Jackie Chan moves. I lay in bed one night thinking about that. That, and what the hell did pendejo mean? The following day, I resolved to find out.
Luis and I worked the same shift. I usually covered the check-out counter while he stocked the shelves. But sometimes we traded off. And if there was a big delivery, Luis and I unpacked and stocked together, leaving Carmen to handle the check-out. Luis was a short guy, well-built with a toothpaste-commercial-worthy smile. Probably my age I guessed, but he had a wife and three kids who sometimes came into the store. The kids always created a ruckus, running around the toy section, hugging Luis, begging for candy. He was good-natured about their visits and when he told them to quiet down, surprisingly, they did.
We were working together at the front of the store, unpacking Easter shit and putting it on display, when I called over to him in what I hoped sounded like a conversational voice. “Hey, Luis. What does pendejo mean?”
I kept engaged with the foil-covered chocolate bunnies, lining them neatly on a shelf. But out of the corner of my eye, I saw Luis stop working and straighten up. He cradled a dozen or more plush toys in his arms and wore an expression I couldn’t read. “This is the word you want to start your Spanish lessons with?” he asked. Now he was smirking.
I shook my head, shrugged one shoulder. “Forget it.”
But he persisted, still grinning. “Who called you that? Una chica?
“Nah” I was regretting I asked and started a slow burn. “Just forget it.”
“It’s not such a bad word, man. It means…” he searched for the English “…fool. Idiot. Maybe asshole. It’s my brother’s nickname for me.” He winked. “And what my wife calls me on special occasions.”.
I took that in with some astonishment. Pendejo, all of a sudden, lost its terror. It no longer sounded like a threat to do violence. And, somehow, that put the whole encounter with the guy in the alley in a new light. I turned the situation over in my mind for the rest of the day while I unpacked bright colored, plastic Easter eggs and baskets. Maybe, in my inebriated state, I’d misinterpreted what had gone down. For sure I heard the footsteps. For sure I’d had physical contact with the guy. My knuckles proved that. But maybe when I heard him behind me I’d been the one who pulled that first punch. After all, didn’t he run away calling this empty threat after him?
When I finished my shift, I clocked out and went over to Harvest to get something to celebrate my new-found peace of mind. Not drink. Instead, I picked up a roasted chicken, some potatoes, a bag of lettuce and a tomato. Added a candy bar at the register. The heft of the grocery bag felt good, like I was taking care of myself. I felt lighter, almost happy.
Driving home, I noticed little things: the spring blooms, the Easter decorations in shop windows, the new store on the corner of Redwood and Main. I stopped for j-walkers and they waved and smiled in my direction. The aroma of roasted chicken on the seat beside me peaked my appetite, made me realize I was hungry.
I took the stairs to my room two at a time, feeling energized. At the landing, I juggled the grocery bag into one hand, and reached deep into my pocket for my key with the other. It was at that moment I heard the noise behind me. Heard the quick footsteps. Became aware of the smell of someone else’s sweat.
I turned to face the guy from the alley.
“And now, pendejo, I know where you live.”
I’ve been a bartender and a brawler, but that life nearly killed me. Hitting rock bottom at twenty-seven looked like sleeping in my junker pickup, taking showers and mooching meals where I could. Months of cold nights and losing thirty pounds turned my head around.
I cleaned up enough to wrangle a job stocking shelves at the Dollar Store after hours. The manager took a chance, saw what I could do, then helped me rent one of the rooms above the Golden West bar. After six months of showing up and getting the job done on the night shift, he boosted my pay and put me on days where I worked even harder.
Six months after that, with cash dignity, I dared test my sobriety with a few glasses of Old Rasputin. I left the party in the brewpub to walk back to the room, maybe wobbling a bit, but proud of myself for staying away from the girls and thinking about the next day on the register at the Dollar Store.
Quick steps close behind me in the darkest part of the alley caused me to duck a punch. Aimed for the side of my head, it could have knocked me out. An arm bounced off my shoulder and a guy in a white T-shirt smelling of sweat surged past me, smaller but just as muscled, with tattooed brown skin and black hair like mine in the same buzz cut.
“Speed wins,” had become my mantra for several reasons. Before he stopped I was at him and did what he tried on me—twice, two boxed ears to scramble his brains, then a knee in the gut to put him on the ground.
He groaned before muttering something in Spanish, but I didn’t understand because I’d never learned it, even though it was all around me growing up. I took two steps away. He said, “I know where you work, pendejo.” That part I understood. I spun and stepped in as if to land a kick. Instead of taking it, he lurched to his feet and scuttled away, clutching his stomach.
I became super-watchful in the days that followed, not missing a face, checking over my shoulder, always looking for the trap.
Finisher – Nona Smith
I steered away from solitary corners in the store, scanned the entrance every time a new customer entered. I kept a box cutter in my pocket, although I wasn’t sure I could actually use it to defend myself. Cutting a person seemed pretty brutal.
After that night in the alley, when my shift ended, I loped around the shopping center before heading for my pickup. After all, the jerk said he knew where I worked, not where I lived. I wanted to keep it that way and figured I could spot a tail if I hung out for a while before going home. I strolled through Harvest Market and O’Reilly’s, spinning around every so often to check my back. I also thought it was a good idea to stay away from the alley. And the booze. The latter a bigger challenge being I lived above a bar.
Four days passed, then five. A week and nothing. No shadowy figures, no gangs of young thugs. Just the lingering recollection of the guy’s sweat, my bruised knuckles and the refrain that kept echoing in my head: “I know where you work, pendejo.”
It didn’t seem necessary, but I threw the deadbolt and secured the chain whenever I was alone in my room. Which, it came to my attention during the nights after the mugging attempt in this year of sobriety, was a lot. Except for my manager at the Dollar Store, I hadn’t made one single friend. No one I could confide in…or brag to about my quick, defensive Jackie Chan moves. I lay in bed one night thinking about that. That, and what the hell did pendejo mean? The following day, I resolved to find out.
Luis and I worked the same shift. I usually covered the check-out counter while he stocked the shelves. But sometimes we traded off. And if there was a big delivery, Luis and I unpacked and stocked together, leaving Carmen to handle the check-out. Luis was a short guy, well-built with a toothpaste-commercial-worthy smile. Probably my age I guessed, but he had a wife and three kids who sometimes came into the store. The kids always created a ruckus, running around the toy section, hugging Luis, begging for candy. He was good-natured about their visits and when he told them to quiet down, surprisingly, they did.
We were working together at the front of the store, unpacking Easter shit and putting it on display, when I called over to him in what I hoped sounded like a conversational voice. “Hey, Luis. What does pendejo mean?”
I kept engaged with the foil-covered chocolate bunnies, lining them neatly on a shelf. But out of the corner of my eye, I saw Luis stop working and straighten up. He cradled a dozen or more plush toys in his arms and wore an expression I couldn’t read. “This is the word you want to start your Spanish lessons with?” he asked. Now he was smirking.
I shook my head, shrugged one shoulder. “Forget it.”
But he persisted, still grinning. “Who called you that? Una chica?
“Nah” I was regretting I asked and started a slow burn. “Just forget it.”
“It’s not such a bad word, man. It means…” he searched for the English “…fool. Idiot. Maybe asshole. It’s my brother’s nickname for me.” He winked. “And what my wife calls me on special occasions.”.
I took that in with some astonishment. Pendejo, all of a sudden, lost its terror. It no longer sounded like a threat to do violence. And, somehow, that put the whole encounter with the guy in the alley in a new light. I turned the situation over in my mind for the rest of the day while I unpacked bright colored, plastic Easter eggs and baskets. Maybe, in my inebriated state, I’d misinterpreted what had gone down. For sure I heard the footsteps. For sure I’d had physical contact with the guy. My knuckles proved that. But maybe when I heard him behind me I’d been the one who pulled that first punch. After all, didn’t he run away calling this empty threat after him?
When I finished my shift, I clocked out and went over to Harvest to get something to celebrate my new-found peace of mind. Not drink. Instead, I picked up a roasted chicken, some potatoes, a bag of lettuce and a tomato. Added a candy bar at the register. The heft of the grocery bag felt good, like I was taking care of myself. I felt lighter, almost happy.
Driving home, I noticed little things: the spring blooms, the Easter decorations in shop windows, the new store on the corner of Redwood and Main. I stopped for j-walkers and they waved and smiled in my direction. The aroma of roasted chicken on the seat beside me peaked my appetite, made me realize I was hungry.
I took the stairs to my room two at a time, feeling energized. At the landing, I juggled the grocery bag into one hand, and reached deep into my pocket for my key with the other. It was at that moment I heard the noise behind me. Heard the quick footsteps. Became aware of the smell of someone else’s sweat.
I turned to face the guy from the alley.
“And now, pendejo, I know where you live.”
“Reality”
Starter: Jasmine Norris
Finisher: Kelly Daoust
Starter: Jasmine Norris
Finisher: Kelly Daoust
Starter—Jasmine Norris
“Hmm, which is better—the pink pig erasers, or the yellow duck erasers?” Charlotte murmured to herself as she bent to examine the display. She had a habit of talking to herself, which did not help her social life whatsoever. All the other fourteen-year-olds—and the twelve-year-olds for that matter called her the “crazy Wilson girl."
It was midsummer, and somehow she had ended up at the Dollar Store. It was a slow day—there were only three other customers. Old Man Nelson, a reclusive old man who insisted that he used to be a pirate—he was looking at lighters. Liam, a high school delinquent stalking the beer isle. He kept running a hand through his gelled black hair, making it look even more ridiculous. Over by the snacks was a chubby lady with obviously dyed red hair, and glasses. Her name was Shirley Bennet, and she lived across the street from Charlotte.
Charlotte glanced at her watch—it was four. She had to head home soon. She returned her attention to the erasers, biting a lock of her auburn hair. That was another habit.
“Look who it is! Crazy Wilson!” She tensed as she heard Liam approach.
“Go away,” she muttered, and he laughed. Ugh, come fall she would go to school with him!
“Are you talking to me, or the voices in your head?” he jeered.
“No one ever listens to you Liam—why should I?” The words crossed her mind, with no warning, and she repeated them without thinking. Then her mouth dropped open in shock and fear—she didn’t really have voices in her head, did she? Liam looked surprised and stricken, but she barely noticed. What was happening to her?
Nice, the voice murmured. Then, louder: I want you all to listen very closely.
“Listen to what?” Old Man Nelson asked, moving towards them.
“You heard that too?” Shirley demanded. Liam stepped back, looking as freaked out as Charlotte felt.
“I—” he stammered. “I heard it too!”
The manager came around the counter, looking concerned. “Are you folks alright?”
“Yes!” Liam and Shirley blurted out together, just as Charlotte and Nelson said, “I don’t know.”
Please listen! The voice insisted. All five of you. This is very important.
Charlotte looked at her fellow customers and saw that they had heard it too. They stared at each other, eyes wide, questions hovering on their lips. But somehow they felt the desperation in the voice, and chose to listen.
Good. Now pay attention, they heard—or felt. You must follow my instructions exactly. First: You must go into the storage room in the back of this store. There you will find a black, analog clock. Second: Turning the hands backwards—backwards not forwards—you must set this clock to twelve. Three: Everyone must place their hands on the clock face. Then the oldest of you must tap the center of the face thirteen times—no more, no less. Tell me, do you understand?
“Go into the back room,” Charlotte repeated. “Find the clock. Set it backwards to twelve. Have everyone touch the face, and tap the middle thirteen times.”
“The oldest person has to tap,” Liam corrected. Charlotte looked at him sharply.
“Liam, you’re not suggesting we do this!”
“Yes, I am! It sounds like an adventure, and because of the clock, it’s probably time travel! I’m pretty sure people pay more attention in—” he broke off, going red. “I mean I’ve always loved time travel.”
The voice spoke again, before Charlotte could argue. I cannot reveal any details, but I can promise this—after the last tap, you will no longer be in the Dollar Store. I cannot force you to go of course, but I urge you too. You will learn something, perhaps about each other, perhaps about yourself. Perhaps that there is more than what you humans call…reality.
Finisher—Kelly Daoust
Old man Nelson grumbled, hiked up his pants, which made no difference to where they sat on his hips, and made a motion that he was leaving the aisle and they should follow.
“You want to do this?” Charlotte squeaked. Weren’t the adults supposed to be the voice of reason?
“I don’t see why not? I could stand to lose a few years. Not that I think anything will happen, but why not?”
Shirley shrugged, “I could stand to lose a few pounds, but I doubt that’ll happen either.”
Nelson chuckled, but didn’t smile. Charlotte was unsure if he was physically able to lift his cheeks given the weight of his wrinkles and the frown that remained the same ever since she could remember.
Liam turned to join Nelson, “Come on crazy, let’s have a story to tell.”
“Don’t call me that!” But then she realized something, “You know, you’re crazy for wanting to do this, and,” she waved her hand dramatically to include the lot of them, “And besides, now I could call all of you crazy too! You heard the voice too!” Her heart pounded, and her chin quivered. She realized she was afraid, but squared her shoulders resolutely and managed to quiet her chin. There was little she could do about the thunder behind her ribs.
“It’s gotta be all of us, and I’m with the derelict here,” Nelson tapped Liam’s shoulder, which made Liam’s face contort. “Let’s have an adventure before I die.” Under his breath he murmured, “Which could be any second.”
“I’m not a derelict,” Liam argued.
Nelson grunted, “Well on your way boy. I should know.”
“What does that mean?”
It was Shirley’s turn, and a wry smile covered her face, “Takes one to know one?”
“You guys, come-on. Are we seriously going to do this?” Charlotte interrupted.
The store manager looked over his shoulder, then up on tip toe, scanning the store, “I’ll lock the front for a few minutes, nobody else is here…”
Charlotte furrowed her brow, slowly shaking her head, “I just don’t think this is wise. What if we can’t get back?”
The other four looked at each other and they all seemed in agreement. Shirley spoke, “Not like any of us have a lot going on in this dimension. Wait, is that what you call it when you change time? Dimensions?” She appeared to get lost in her thoughts.
The store manager looked expectant and trotted up to the front, locking the door with a key that retracted from the ring of keys on his belt. When he turned, he rubbed his hands together, “Let’s do this!”
All but Charlotte repeated the same, and Liam clapped his hands in excitement.
“Charlotte honey, sweetheart, wake up little one. It’s time for school. Charlotte, wake up.”
Charlotte fought to give attention to the gentle prodding of her body. It felt as if she were down in a deep tunnel. The nudging continued. Charlotte moaned, “Mom? You’re here too?”
“You’re dreaming honey.”
“What? Mom? I’m afraid to do it.”
“Do what darling?”
“What if I can’t get back?”
“You’re dreaming Charlotte, you need to wake up.” Then Charlotte opened her eyes. She scanned her bedroom and blinked furiously. Her mother repeated, “You were dreaming gorgeous girl. It’s okay, you’re home, and safe.”
“Hmm, which is better—the pink pig erasers, or the yellow duck erasers?” Charlotte murmured to herself as she bent to examine the display. She had a habit of talking to herself, which did not help her social life whatsoever. All the other fourteen-year-olds—and the twelve-year-olds for that matter called her the “crazy Wilson girl."
It was midsummer, and somehow she had ended up at the Dollar Store. It was a slow day—there were only three other customers. Old Man Nelson, a reclusive old man who insisted that he used to be a pirate—he was looking at lighters. Liam, a high school delinquent stalking the beer isle. He kept running a hand through his gelled black hair, making it look even more ridiculous. Over by the snacks was a chubby lady with obviously dyed red hair, and glasses. Her name was Shirley Bennet, and she lived across the street from Charlotte.
Charlotte glanced at her watch—it was four. She had to head home soon. She returned her attention to the erasers, biting a lock of her auburn hair. That was another habit.
“Look who it is! Crazy Wilson!” She tensed as she heard Liam approach.
“Go away,” she muttered, and he laughed. Ugh, come fall she would go to school with him!
“Are you talking to me, or the voices in your head?” he jeered.
“No one ever listens to you Liam—why should I?” The words crossed her mind, with no warning, and she repeated them without thinking. Then her mouth dropped open in shock and fear—she didn’t really have voices in her head, did she? Liam looked surprised and stricken, but she barely noticed. What was happening to her?
Nice, the voice murmured. Then, louder: I want you all to listen very closely.
“Listen to what?” Old Man Nelson asked, moving towards them.
“You heard that too?” Shirley demanded. Liam stepped back, looking as freaked out as Charlotte felt.
“I—” he stammered. “I heard it too!”
The manager came around the counter, looking concerned. “Are you folks alright?”
“Yes!” Liam and Shirley blurted out together, just as Charlotte and Nelson said, “I don’t know.”
Please listen! The voice insisted. All five of you. This is very important.
Charlotte looked at her fellow customers and saw that they had heard it too. They stared at each other, eyes wide, questions hovering on their lips. But somehow they felt the desperation in the voice, and chose to listen.
Good. Now pay attention, they heard—or felt. You must follow my instructions exactly. First: You must go into the storage room in the back of this store. There you will find a black, analog clock. Second: Turning the hands backwards—backwards not forwards—you must set this clock to twelve. Three: Everyone must place their hands on the clock face. Then the oldest of you must tap the center of the face thirteen times—no more, no less. Tell me, do you understand?
“Go into the back room,” Charlotte repeated. “Find the clock. Set it backwards to twelve. Have everyone touch the face, and tap the middle thirteen times.”
“The oldest person has to tap,” Liam corrected. Charlotte looked at him sharply.
“Liam, you’re not suggesting we do this!”
“Yes, I am! It sounds like an adventure, and because of the clock, it’s probably time travel! I’m pretty sure people pay more attention in—” he broke off, going red. “I mean I’ve always loved time travel.”
The voice spoke again, before Charlotte could argue. I cannot reveal any details, but I can promise this—after the last tap, you will no longer be in the Dollar Store. I cannot force you to go of course, but I urge you too. You will learn something, perhaps about each other, perhaps about yourself. Perhaps that there is more than what you humans call…reality.
Finisher—Kelly Daoust
Old man Nelson grumbled, hiked up his pants, which made no difference to where they sat on his hips, and made a motion that he was leaving the aisle and they should follow.
“You want to do this?” Charlotte squeaked. Weren’t the adults supposed to be the voice of reason?
“I don’t see why not? I could stand to lose a few years. Not that I think anything will happen, but why not?”
Shirley shrugged, “I could stand to lose a few pounds, but I doubt that’ll happen either.”
Nelson chuckled, but didn’t smile. Charlotte was unsure if he was physically able to lift his cheeks given the weight of his wrinkles and the frown that remained the same ever since she could remember.
Liam turned to join Nelson, “Come on crazy, let’s have a story to tell.”
“Don’t call me that!” But then she realized something, “You know, you’re crazy for wanting to do this, and,” she waved her hand dramatically to include the lot of them, “And besides, now I could call all of you crazy too! You heard the voice too!” Her heart pounded, and her chin quivered. She realized she was afraid, but squared her shoulders resolutely and managed to quiet her chin. There was little she could do about the thunder behind her ribs.
“It’s gotta be all of us, and I’m with the derelict here,” Nelson tapped Liam’s shoulder, which made Liam’s face contort. “Let’s have an adventure before I die.” Under his breath he murmured, “Which could be any second.”
“I’m not a derelict,” Liam argued.
Nelson grunted, “Well on your way boy. I should know.”
“What does that mean?”
It was Shirley’s turn, and a wry smile covered her face, “Takes one to know one?”
“You guys, come-on. Are we seriously going to do this?” Charlotte interrupted.
The store manager looked over his shoulder, then up on tip toe, scanning the store, “I’ll lock the front for a few minutes, nobody else is here…”
Charlotte furrowed her brow, slowly shaking her head, “I just don’t think this is wise. What if we can’t get back?”
The other four looked at each other and they all seemed in agreement. Shirley spoke, “Not like any of us have a lot going on in this dimension. Wait, is that what you call it when you change time? Dimensions?” She appeared to get lost in her thoughts.
The store manager looked expectant and trotted up to the front, locking the door with a key that retracted from the ring of keys on his belt. When he turned, he rubbed his hands together, “Let’s do this!”
All but Charlotte repeated the same, and Liam clapped his hands in excitement.
“Charlotte honey, sweetheart, wake up little one. It’s time for school. Charlotte, wake up.”
Charlotte fought to give attention to the gentle prodding of her body. It felt as if she were down in a deep tunnel. The nudging continued. Charlotte moaned, “Mom? You’re here too?”
“You’re dreaming honey.”
“What? Mom? I’m afraid to do it.”
“Do what darling?”
“What if I can’t get back?”
“You’re dreaming Charlotte, you need to wake up.” Then Charlotte opened her eyes. She scanned her bedroom and blinked furiously. Her mother repeated, “You were dreaming gorgeous girl. It’s okay, you’re home, and safe.”
“Saturday's Sundae”
Starter: Patty Joslyn
Finisher: Chrissy Sullivan
Starter: Patty Joslyn
Finisher: Chrissy Sullivan
Starter – Patty Joslyn
My buddies and I were sitting at the chipped, worn, red-flecked counter at the dime store, each of us with a banana split waiting for the “Ready, Set, Dig In.” We’d been sharing Sunday's/Sundaes since the first of us turned sixteen and received a real paycheck; young men each hoping to one day find a way out of the little town we called Boondocks. We played baseball and basketball together, worked on one another's cars. We watched others turn to girls and whiskey. What the five of us wanted was a fat wallet and a car that would get us somewhere else. Eighteen years old seemed like just the beginning.
One late afternoon, each with a long-handled spoon poised in hand, we spun our sticky stools towards the door as it creaked opened. The brass bell rang and in walked the love of my life. She didn’t know it yet, neither did the other guys. She was Albert's cousin. Albert was the quarterback on our team; it was his Dad’s garage we brought our cars to on Sundays. Albert had told us his scrawny cousin, who he hadn’t seen in five years, was coming to visit. He said the last time she was here, she followed him around asking the names of things he doubted she cared a hoot about. Her name was April May.
When I saw her I guessed she must be visiting from a place called Heavenly. My ice cream melted as I sat with my tongue thick as an arm. April May looked us boys down and up. She spun the stool closest to me so it blurred my eyes and asked where we were going next.
I couldn’t speak even though I was the one who had chosen the movie we’d later be seeing uptown.
Next week April May and I celebrate our thirty-fifth wedding anniversary. We’ll share a banana split and she’ll choose the movie. What she doesn’t know is in my pocket I have two tickets; they’re to the one place she’s always wanted to visit outside of our beloved Boondocks.
I can’t wait to see her face.
Finisher – Chrissy Sullivan
Since our anniversary was on Saturday we decided to go to a matinee at the CinePlex. April Mae wanted to see the Black Widow, starring Debra Winger and Dennis Hopper. I flashed on Easy Rider, bought the tickets and we followed the signs on the walls to the entrance door. I passed the tickets to the usher, admiring how cool our clothes looked in the black light.
I still hadn't told April Mae about the tickets, but I had plenty of time. I started daydreaming, for what must have been the umpteenth time, about how surprised she'd be. I could see us there, eating pineapple, walking on the beach. Then the weirdest thing happened. The picture on the screen started mirroring my thoughts and I could swear the movie was filmed in Hawaii, the place our tickets were for.
An uneasy feeling trickled into my gut. I wondered whether April Mae had seen the tickets. Or did someone from the travel agency call the house accidentally? I asked them not to. Did April Mae know ahead of time The Black Widow took place in Hawaii, or was it just a coincidence and I was imagining things? I sure as heck wanted to find out.
As the credits rolled and the house lights seeped on, we stood up and crossed to the aisle. I took one of the tickets from my pocket and held it so April Mae could read what it said. I could tell from the way she began kissing and hanging on to me as we walked up the aisle she was surprised. When we got to the lobby she couldn't thank me enough.
I was relieved things turned out the way they did. The peaceful look on April Mae's face as we drove across town to the dollar store for ice cream, made me feel good all over.
My buddies and I were sitting at the chipped, worn, red-flecked counter at the dime store, each of us with a banana split waiting for the “Ready, Set, Dig In.” We’d been sharing Sunday's/Sundaes since the first of us turned sixteen and received a real paycheck; young men each hoping to one day find a way out of the little town we called Boondocks. We played baseball and basketball together, worked on one another's cars. We watched others turn to girls and whiskey. What the five of us wanted was a fat wallet and a car that would get us somewhere else. Eighteen years old seemed like just the beginning.
One late afternoon, each with a long-handled spoon poised in hand, we spun our sticky stools towards the door as it creaked opened. The brass bell rang and in walked the love of my life. She didn’t know it yet, neither did the other guys. She was Albert's cousin. Albert was the quarterback on our team; it was his Dad’s garage we brought our cars to on Sundays. Albert had told us his scrawny cousin, who he hadn’t seen in five years, was coming to visit. He said the last time she was here, she followed him around asking the names of things he doubted she cared a hoot about. Her name was April May.
When I saw her I guessed she must be visiting from a place called Heavenly. My ice cream melted as I sat with my tongue thick as an arm. April May looked us boys down and up. She spun the stool closest to me so it blurred my eyes and asked where we were going next.
I couldn’t speak even though I was the one who had chosen the movie we’d later be seeing uptown.
Next week April May and I celebrate our thirty-fifth wedding anniversary. We’ll share a banana split and she’ll choose the movie. What she doesn’t know is in my pocket I have two tickets; they’re to the one place she’s always wanted to visit outside of our beloved Boondocks.
I can’t wait to see her face.
Finisher – Chrissy Sullivan
Since our anniversary was on Saturday we decided to go to a matinee at the CinePlex. April Mae wanted to see the Black Widow, starring Debra Winger and Dennis Hopper. I flashed on Easy Rider, bought the tickets and we followed the signs on the walls to the entrance door. I passed the tickets to the usher, admiring how cool our clothes looked in the black light.
I still hadn't told April Mae about the tickets, but I had plenty of time. I started daydreaming, for what must have been the umpteenth time, about how surprised she'd be. I could see us there, eating pineapple, walking on the beach. Then the weirdest thing happened. The picture on the screen started mirroring my thoughts and I could swear the movie was filmed in Hawaii, the place our tickets were for.
An uneasy feeling trickled into my gut. I wondered whether April Mae had seen the tickets. Or did someone from the travel agency call the house accidentally? I asked them not to. Did April Mae know ahead of time The Black Widow took place in Hawaii, or was it just a coincidence and I was imagining things? I sure as heck wanted to find out.
As the credits rolled and the house lights seeped on, we stood up and crossed to the aisle. I took one of the tickets from my pocket and held it so April Mae could read what it said. I could tell from the way she began kissing and hanging on to me as we walked up the aisle she was surprised. When we got to the lobby she couldn't thank me enough.
I was relieved things turned out the way they did. The peaceful look on April Mae's face as we drove across town to the dollar store for ice cream, made me feel good all over.
