His Gray Half

9. Hi, Cousin.

Chapter Nine:
|Hi, Cousin|

•••

ADRAIN MCCLERON.

Carl is my version of the Red Queen from when Alice fell through the rabbit hole to wonderland, whose only best catch phrases were wails of "OFF. WITH. HIS. HEAAAD!". I admit, his head may not be that large, but this asshole-ness, topples Everest. The shortest people really do have the tallest attitudes.

Carl was my afternoon boss, the penultimate shift before I retire to the loggerheads of coffee bean, an espresso machine, and the Starbucks apron.

Fat puffs around his cheeks, and sags under the jaw. His neck is swollen too, with a silver chains encircling it, threatening to choke out every ounce of life is has left. His body plum, and fingers stuffed with rings so tight that his flesh pops like a yeasted dough. His hair is brown at most, and gray at some: sixty-something doesn't do too great on him, especially not with all the chicken buckets and cake frostings.

Regardless, I do admire how he carries himself with so much prestige and confidence, one thing I envy him for.

"Carl it's about —" starting off softly might've been the very reason his abrupt cutoff felt like a sledgehammer slamming against my chest.

"Stack the top shelves. The packets should orderly be side by side to each other, and the cans should lie atop the other..."

I see the rings on his left fingers he orders about, than even his lips. If men didn't have heads, I'd have said that his fingers were where his brain was. He flaunts them with so much vim.

"Carl I..."
I try getting his attention, but then again, he's Carl.

"—Once you're done, take out the empty cartons in the back, and...I don't know, put them in the trash or something—"

"Carl?"
Again, futile.

"—just make sure you get rid of it, okay?"

Now!
"Carl!"

"What?"
He looked very displeased.

"My shift ended..." I looked into my wrist watch, then back at him. "Over twenty minutes ago." I added.

"So?"

"I have another which I'll be late for if I don't get going soon."

He anchored a brow over the other, as he asked.
"Okay?"

"I gotta go Carl—"

Again...

"What about what I just asked you to do?"

"I'll do it tomorrow, I promise!"
I pleaded.

"So, this place is gonna look like a train wreck all day, until you finally show up tomorrow by 4:30PM?"

Why does it feel like the next thing I say, might get me fired or even worse?

"I....I think so." My response held a lot of jitter and a bucket of self loathing in it. I tighten my grip on the strap of the backpack running over my left shoulder, and I turn around, and decided to slowly walk away.
"I gotta go Carl. See you tomorrow."

He immediately dropped an exasperated groan. I turned around and his arms are locked together in a fold.
He grunts again, spreads his arms, and his lips move to speak.
"Amanda—"

"Adrian —" I correct.

"Amala..." He says it wrong again, but this far, I'm already used to the intentional mispronunciation of my name.
"If you fucking walk out that door, how about this..." He pondered before saying. "you're fired!"