Shoes On A Wire

Troy Strange strangers

"$ 7.95"
I say to the old scruffy man in front of me. He hands me a flimsy 5$ bill and change and limps out of the store. I sighed wishing I was anywhere else but here; work.

Craig's convenience store was one of those rundown stores that when you'd walk in the door all you'd smell was Clorox and grease. The hum of the over head lights were driving me crazy. I yawned. It's typical for Tim to make me work until closing time at 5:00 . Which fortunately was in 30 minutes.

The devil himself walks out of the employees bathroom as if summoned by my negative thoughts. Tim the manager, his dad Dave was the owner, was an asshole. So was Dave but I didn't see him on a daily basis like I did with Tim.

"The fuck is this" Tim gestures to something behind a display of magazines.

I clench my fists but know better than to go off on him. I shrug my shoulders and go over to inspect what he's pointing at. A pool of blue liquid oozes out of the side of the slurpie machine. It was broken again. I sigh.

"Stop staring at it and clean it up" he says enunciating the words slowly as if I was a 7 year old.

I glare at his zitty freckled face but walk to the janitor closet. I relax a little as I hear his retreating footsteps. I turn around with the mop quick enough to see his curly orange hair disappearing behind the corner. Probably going home leaving me to close the store. Ugh he was so lazy.

After about 15 minutes of scrubbing and putting a messy out of order sign on the machine I hear the door chime and almost smile realising I get to stop scrubbing momentarily.

Almost.

I wander back behind the cash and warily watch the customer. It wasn't my job but too many things get stolen and I'm usually always the one blamed. Even if Tim was on that shift. Work perks?

I glance down the aisle to see a very tall man bend over to inspect toothpaste. He looked either really interested in mouthwash or stoned. I sigh. Not another one. Last stoner in here bought 40 twinkies. The entire stock. Talk about the munchies.

He was distractedly browsing through the chips aisle. He walked like he was suspicious of the floor. And the walls. And the ceiling. Maybe he was on LSD. I liked to guess what people were on when they came in obliviously under the influence. It was a game to pass time.

For about five minutes he wandered around the store.

How the hell could someone be that interested in cleaning products.

He finally stepped under the over head mirror so I could get a good look at him. Early 30's, a little scruff, blue tired eyes, a permanently furrowed brow (whether from confusion or anger or disappointment I did not know), messy hair and... A scar.

I'm not talking about a little scar above his lip from when his brother threw a plastic shovel at his head when they were little.

It was a cruel scar, snaking its way from right under the corner of his mouth to the middle of his throat under his chin. The scar seemed to have stretched with age. I almost flinched. Those kind of scars were from serious things. Painful things. I shuddered thinking about what had happened. I felt a twinge in the pit of my stomach as I thought of my dad.

How similar was his fate to this strangers. Except my dad had obviously gotten it worse. Or had he? This stranger looked so empty and ...

Sad

I knew that if my dad had survived he would be happy. Much different than this stranger. Maybe I'd have been happy too. I was interrupted in my thoughts as the sound of the strangers boots scuffing along the tiles grew nearer.