Richard Mitchell
The Counter
So there I was. Waiting in line. There was a line, let me assure you of
that. That is the crux of the of the matter here, the meat of the
story. I was waiting there in this department store, one of those fancy
ones that have an extensive amount of cashmere. I was waiting there for my
girlfriend. She wasn’t there, but I decided I would buy her something,
that’s why I was waiting, that’s why I was in line. For her birthday. See,
I never expected I would date a girl like this. She was all appearance and
girl-y, you know, one of those girls that really got dolled up, one that
looked the part and smelled the part and acted the part because, deep down
inside, she was just that and not much more. She was attractive and had a
good sense of style, a real captivating sense that really drew you in.
Once you were in though you found out there wasn’t really that much else,
but by then you sort of forgot why you were there in the first place and
just played dumb because she was beautiful. And the next thing you knew
she was talking about marriage and kids and houses ad nauseum. Just
talking though, not like we were engaged, but things could go that route
in a moment’s notice. If I let it. But I was there and she was there and
things were ok and I liked going to dinner and all the stuff that went
along with what we were up to.
So, like I said, I was in line and waiting at the counter of this
department store, something like Bloomingdales but not. How do I know
there was a line? Because I was waiting behind this woman in tight black
spandex pants. How do I remember? How do people remember anything? Plus, I
was looking at her ass and that was something to remember. I would never
say that to my girlfriend. I mean, come on, I wouldn’t want her to know I
was staring at another girl’s ass while I intended on buying her a
birthday present but the facts are the facts and I remember waiting behind
her. She bought some perfume, not the kind that I wanted to buy for Angie,
my girlfriend, but another kind. I had in mind the perfect bottle. She
said she wanted it but I know she hadn’t gotten around to buying it yet,
the perfect gift for someone, the one you know they want but they haven’t
treated themselves to yet and you get to beat them to the punch. I was
proud. I had a soft, warm glow to be honest. Waiting in line with my chest
puffed and my heart of hearts secure in the fact that I was a good
boyfriend, possibly great even. I mean, why not, I wasn’t fucking Hitler,
I was nice and easy going and paid for dinner and everything.
The woman with the nice ass, or great ass since I am telling the facts
as they truly happened and not the way me or anyone else would like to
remember them, I mean if it was the way I would like to remember them I
would rather not remember the thing at all, but that’s not the point, is
it? Well, she bought her bottle of whatever perfume girls with great asses
buy and I took her place in the front of the line. In the front. There was
not another person in sight of the perfume counter, trust me. It was about
lunchtime on a weekday and things were slow at the old department store,
the one stop shop for yuppies and degenerate housewives waiting for their
next Zanax to kick in. So I waited at the counter while the attendant, a
rather attractive yet older black woman did some paper work and looked to
be doing some inventory. I can’t say because I never worked there but I
can say that I didn’t mind, she was doing her job and I was a perceptive
and considerate potential life partner with a great present. She bent down
and checked boxes with her pencil. I spun in circles with how her,
Angie’s, face would look when she saw how nice I was. I was nice. I am
nice.
I was waiting what couldn’t have been more than fifty seconds when she
waddled over. She couldn’t have been more that four feet. She was sort of
hunched. Maybe I am a little prejudiced at this point but she was a little
hunchback with a hair dye job. That’s what I first noticed. She came over
to the counter and stood directly to the right of me. I can remember her
smell of awful perfume and hair spray and onions. I can remember what she
said exactly.
"I need help, I have a return to make," she said pointing to a bag with
a perfume bottle in it. I waited. No response. "I have a return here," she
said, pointing to the bag even more dramatically and raising her eyebrows
like she was speaking to the deaf. Still no response, the woman behind the
counter continued counting the bottles and making her notes, clearly
having dealt with women of this sort in the past, ignoring her intrusive
yammering for real business. "I demand a sales person, I want a refund!"
she cackled, possibly with all she had left, the decrepit old shell. I
stood straight, still proud of my insight, still proud of my counter
position. The sales woman made her move. "Can I help you?" she asked, her
head turned, looking down at the merchandise. "Yes…" I said just as my
squat intruder babbled something about a return, a problem, a receipt and
an exchange. No, no.
"Excuse me ma’am, but I believe I was here first," I said in my Sunday
school voice, smirking a smirk of recognition, as if the sales person and
I went way back to old days, the days where the thought of dealing with
walking skeletons who wore designer scents were things unimaginable,
inconceivable. The old troll never even looked at me. Didn’t even bat an
eye. "I have a return to make, this product is garbage," she said, glaring
right into the sales woman’s eyes. I think her nametag said Liz. Liz
wouldn’t look at me either. "Just a second," she said as she made her
final pencil stroke and began to listen to the old midget’s story.
"No," I said, disregarding the fact that Liz had made no concession to
the fact that she plainly saw me waiting here before Ms. Igor showed up, "
I was here first." I wasn’t trying to be standoffish, I just wasn’t about
to take this lying down. There are lines for a reason. It’s first come,
first served, not who’s the biggest asshole wins. Time began to move
slower. The old bag started to yell about her return, how it wasn’t what
she wanted. I countered with a rant of my own, not to be outdone, about
how I was standing there and watched this woman walk up to the counter and
attempt to supercede my position, possibly not in that exact language, but
you get the gist. The goblin refused to stop talking, refused to stop
blathering, insisted on saying, "I want help now, I don’t care about this
man next to me, I have already spent my money here on this trash
and I want it back. I want my money back now and I don’t care who likes
it."
My face filled with hot, searing blood. My body began to tingle,
starting at the top of my head and tickling down into my arms and ending
in my fingertips. "How would you like it if I tore off your little head?"
I asked her. I have never, ever even come close to this behavior in public
before. Sure, I’ve said things I’ve regretted and maybe even made a few
old girlfriends cry but that was all behind closed doors, all in a
different time and place, in a different universe. There was something
about this woman and this situation that made me unable to control myself,
that made me stand in the glow of the fluorescent light, before noon even,
and stand there and say what I said. I was not being idly abused by this
woman. I was not going to stand there and take it. Not today. Not by her.
The woman stood staring right ahead at our contended accomplice but I
knew I had lost Liz’s preference with that comment, if I ever had it to
begin with. She got on the phone and within seconds a security guard came
to escort me out. I knew the phone was a bad sign and I began to plan my
exit. I wanted a good closer but all I could muster up was, "You’ll be
dead soon, you old shit." Not my best moment but my heart was pumping with
more effort than it had ever had. I almost had to tell it "pump…pump". I
tried to fix a look on my face like a man who got a raw deal, the look of
sly righteousness and spite, like James Dean and O.J. wrapped into one. I
was lead to the door by the security guy, who never said a word but gave
me a death stare as I walked out the door he opened for me. I had hoped he
was going to grab my arm so I could coolly announce, "hands off" or some
such quip from the lexicon Bad Ass but he knew better than to mess with a
guy who almost kicked an old lady’s teeth in. I wasn’t proud of myself,
believe me, but I wasn’t ashamed either. The whole scene had taken place
so fast it all whirled through my head as I began to wander back to where
I thought my car was parked. I was about half way there when I decided to
turn back.
I was going to wait for that little creep and really let her have it.
The whole reason I even said anything was because I wasn’t going to let
that spoon-fed little monster get away with thinking the world revolves
around her wrinkly, saggy body. I took my place a few feet away from the
door the rent-a-cop kicked me out of with enough distance away from it
that no one would be able to see me through the glass. I wasn’t sure what
I was going to say to her exactly but I was going to say something. I was
going to scare her and make her understand she is not allowed to treat
other human beings like this. Has she lived her whole life and not found
this out yet? I guess the security guard walkie-talkied my description to
the other mall security guards because about two minutes after I took my
post, a car pulled up and the man inside told me I better leave or there
would be charges filed against me. I walked away as if I hadn’t even heard
him and decided to on my own volition. I found my car and drove home. I
bought Angie a puppy instead and we named her Snickers.
- Richard Mitchell lives in Philadelphia, PA and is a recent graduate
of Villanova University. This is his first published work. He is
currently attempting a collection of short fiction while pursuing his
graduate degree.
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