Thou Shall Not Fall - Lost Boys

Chapter Two: Max and Dwayne

I've been used to sleeping on buses lately, yet I still wake up unbelievably stiff. I think I might be back on that last bus. The one running to that sleepy coastal town. That one that smelt of disinfectant and looked like it hadn't been driven before that day.

As the ceiling comes into view, I adjust.

I'm stretched across the furniture, my head and shoulders on one chair, my middle across the footstool, and the lower part of my calves and my feet lain on the second chair. Only my arms are free of the sleeping bag, which I've managed to wrap around myself to the point where it is genuinely difficult to get out. I reach for the zip, folding myself in half like some demented worm to escape my prison.

In a drowsy blur, the furniture escapes me, and I wriggle onto the floorboards with an embarrassing thump.

If Miss Lawrence is downstairs, she might come to see if I'm okay.

And that... is not ideal.

I wrestle the zipper down the length of the bag, slide out, and stumble to the bathroom.

There's no permanent mirror fixed to the wall, but at some point, someone has rammed a nail through the grout, then hung a small, framed mirror from said nail.

I look like a human lab rat who has been dosed up on experimental drugs. My hair is insane, my cheeks look like they've been flattened by a steamroller, and the bags under my eyes are a cause for medical concern.

I splash water on my face.

~

The sun is especially unforgiving, and the blueberry muffin I bought for breakfast is not sitting well in my stomach. Still, this loser needs a job, and since I don't have one yet, I really need to go get myself one. I figure the police must have a lot of people on staff already, given every notice board is plastered with missing persons and safety advice.

I don't want to work at anything open late. Late night shifts in a party town seem like an unwanted risk. 

That rules out convenience stores and carnival stands.

There's always that damn video store. I can distinctly remember a sign proclaiming it only stays open from 7am to 7pm. It could be worth a try.

It's certainly worth a try, I realise, when I see a small poster saying "HELP WANTED".

I enter.

The man I can only assume to be the owner is wandering around in a relatively geeky but respectable suit. He's got a light grey jacket and pants, with a patterned peach shirt, and a thick pair of glasses balancing awkwardly on a dainty nose.

When he turns to smile at me with brilliant teeth, I notice the depth of his eyes. It's not something you see in everyone you meet. Some people have piercing gazes, others have incredibly shallow ones that seem to gloss over everything they land upon. I met a lot of aspiring politicians with those vacant, unseeing eyes.

This man has eyes deeper than his head allows. Eyes with unimaginable depth and breadth, and the glimmer of knowledge shining over his pupil as he approaches.

I return his smile. "Good morning. I'm here about the request for help."

"Oh, brilliant!" he exclaims, clutching my hand in his own. "I'm Max." He nearly rips my shoulder from its socket. 

"Lovely to meet you. I'm Cassandra."

I'm released from the handshake and invited to follow him through the store.

"I've owned this place for a little while now. I've got a couple of permanent staff, but most of them are still kids, and can't work weekdays. You know how it is."