Saturday, April 05, 2008

83/1,000,000

[ rough prose draft ]

The closest thing I found was a job at Wireless and Wireless. Half of the store was dedicated to lingerie. The other half: cellular phones. Nancy, my boss, had teeth like a hacksaw and eyes were black as vintage telephones. She seems like bait for gamey fowl and pheasants, weather permitting. The sun was a bit more inebriating as it sparkled off the B cups. A woman walked past my register hugging her grocery bag close to her bosom. She took off her sunglasses and poked them into her purse hung awkwardly over a shriveled knot of a shoulder. She was buying crotch-less underwear. Her husband was across the store going over pager systems with Nancy. He was a lanky bearded man carrying a wicker suitcase. We almost made eye contact. While waiting for the approval of her credit card the wife intimated how she was trying to distract her husband from all of the terrible things that been going on as of late. “Our daughter ran away,” she whispered. “And I think he’d like a new one.”

Somehow the sidewalks gave way to Wireless and Wireless. It was seventy-five degrees and the wind came out of the northwest at such and such miles per hour. I wasn’t one of these guys who went to college and majored in meteorology. Surprisingly, senior citizens made up fifty percent of our clientele. I frequently heard seniors clapping their hands, as this is what seniors do when slightly aroused. Sometimes Nancy watched them shop via a monitor in the stock room, smoking. Once, while I was sorting inventory data sheets, two old men came into the store grossly engaged in a conversation. The fact that they had wandered into a women’s lingerie slash cellular phone store had no bearing on the two. Their mannerisms ruffled a few hanging items of clothing. The more talkative of the two had a thick, black moustache. “Look at this kid, he sells panties,” the moustache said. The other one replied, “Perverts sell panties. He sells lingerie.” He made a motion with his hand during lingerie. “In my day women wore slips and tasteful dresses,” said the moustache. Nancy cleared her throat from behind the wall. For a few minutes they browsed. Eventually the guy without the moustache wandered over to where I was. He placed both his hands on he glass counter and played piano with his fingers. “Does anyone ever come in here to buy phones?” “Rarely,” I said. “This is what typically pays the rent,” I said while pointing to rack of imported silk and velvet brassieres. The man without the moustache nodded approvingly. “You’re a good kid,” he said. “You have a real future in women’s underwear.”

3 comments:

b. said...

oh, this is good.
nice brain, carl.

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aimee said...

you are a strange, strange man.