Cancel Your Future

Chapter 8

To the wibbly wobbly machine! Allons-y!

You have no idea how long and how bad I'd wanted to say that.

Yeah, I'd been in honors French for the past three years and the only word I knew was Allons-y. 

After inserting my key into the technician and playing around with it a bit I finally got a response from the beat piece of crap. (The Chevi, not Clapton)

Vreeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeem! 

Unfortunately, that ear bleeding sound was the most pleasant noise I'd heard on that car ride. From that point on it was:

"Andrea, I'm cold."

"Andrea, your car smells like your grandfather."

"Andrea, your blinker is broken."

"Andrea, I don't like Hanson."

"Andrea, your vein looks like it's going to pop out of your forehead."

"Andrea, eyes on the road."

"Andrea, stop hitting me!"

Was it inappropriate that when we finally arrived at the store I felt like violently lunging myself at the ground like Nicholas Cage to a bad movie script? Nevertheless I flung open the door which was about one slam away from falling off and walked in, babbling asshole by my side. 

The store was surprisingly quiet with the exception of the annoying blond cashier going off to whom I assumed to be her boyfriend via iPhone and some man browsing around.  (Oh, and of course Clapton who handed me our board. I guess that meant I was paying.)

"Yeah, I don't want to come over and eat tonight. I'm feeling kind of bloaty-- of course it's a word, I just said it -- that's how words are made. People say them." 

Unbelievable, I was standing right in front of the menstrualing woman with my five dollars faced  down on the counter and she still ignored me. 

"Yeah, I don't know.. You know what, I think I'm going to get a pizza, actually."

I cleared my throat, hoping to catch her attention. It didn't. "Come on! I'm growing a beard here!"

"Clay, I'm going to have to call you back--" she hung up. "What the hell is your problem?"

"What the hell is my problem? What the hell is your problem?" I raised my voice, probably overreacting. "Paying customer, here! Maybe you'd know that if you were doing your job and not yapping off to your mate over there."

"Unfreaking believable." she muttered under her breath exasperated, shoving the poster board into a plastic shopping bag.

"Yeah, what's unfreaking believable is the service in this place," I snatched the bag from her. "And by the way, bloaty isn't a word. There's bloating, bloated, but no bloaty."

"Wow, that's so very fascinating." She rolled her eyes, casually unlocking her iPhone.

"To you the way ice is made is probably fascinating!" I spit before marching off and grabbing Clapton who was playing Scrabble on one of the display tablets. "We're leaving."

 "But I'm still waiting for Eric B. from Omaha, Nebraska to make his move!" Clapton whined, gripping onto the black tablet as if it were a child. 

"Clapton! Give me the damn tablet!" I played tug-o-war over the device, losing to a Texan with about eight percent body fat.

"Not until I win!"

Clapton finally released the tablet causing me to fall ass first on the floor and witness something I probably wouldn't have expected. 

"Sorry about that, Clay, babe. Just some rude customer. God, I hate my job. I can't wait until I get into Harvard so we can be together all the time. (A Harvard girl using the word 'bloaty', ladies and gents!) Hold on-- another  customer." she put her phone to her shoulder, responding in a monotonous tone to the man who was browsing earlier. "Can I help you?"

"Where's the money?" The man shouted out.

"That's literally what I ask every pay day." she drummed her fingers against the counter.

Holy shit! He had a knife! HOLY SHIT HE HAD A KNIFE THAT WAS GOING THROUGH THAT CHICK'S BODY! 

I violently grabbed Clapton's bony arm and pulled him into the adjacent pet isle, ducking behind a scratching post. Once the screaming eased down from Weeping Angel to a mere heavy breathing we figured he'd gotten away. 

Or behind us-- either one.

"You didn't see nothing!"  he spit, tossing us a folded twenty-dollar bill he stole from the register. Really,  you just robbed an entire store and you only give us twenty dollars to protect your identity? Cheapskate. 

"You didn't see anything."  Clapton's once pasty face was then flushed and he was out cold, someone had to say it. I'm sorry. 

"Exactly."  Our little chat was then disrupted by police sirens and the robber fleed the store, leaving the girl dead in her own blood bath, iPhone clasped in hand. 

Cancel your future, bitch. 

 Luckily Clapton and I were able to escape without being interrogated by the cops. Well, I escaped, Clapton was lugged out. 

"Andrea," he finally croaked out, "I think you found your story."

"Clapton, I think you're right."