Mavin's Super Seal

Everyone in Haney's Hardware knew Chuck was a pussy. The antique behind the counter with canyons in his cheeks knew it. The veteran at the drill bits wearing a faded hat from Korea and velcro shoes from K-Mart knew it. Even the bloodhound by the door who lifted his head to every visitor but always left his jowls on the floor knew it. Maybe he smelled it on Chuck. Maybe they all did.

Chuck Dill didn't belong in Haney's Hardware. But damn if he didn't try to fake it. He chose the rattiest of the flannel shirts his dad passed down to him over various Christmases. His jeans bore the battle scars of a dozen different colors of paint. The usual suspects of Haney's didn't need to know it was blood spilled from painting miniature plastic goblins. Paint was paint, Chuck figured, whether it's on a house or a level-twelve mage. His hat carried the proud stitches of the Highland Hornets, a nothing team from a nothing high school. At least, so Chuck assumed. He knew any big teams would only invite conversations he wasn't prepared for. The jig would be up faster than he could say "full court press," whatever that meant. It only took a trip to the thrift store on Mackenzie to find the Hornets cap and a crown for his perfect disguise.

Chuck didn't know where Highland was or even what kind of sport its Hornets played and he didn't care. The hat, like the shirt and jeans, was a smokescreen, a masquerade. To keep the regulars of Haney's from giving him any shit. To keep the regulars of Haney's from noticing the nervous tremors in his hands, the milky void where his facial hair never arrived or the acne on the bridge of his nose. To keep the regulars of Haney's from noticing that Chuck was a pussy.

The dog barked.

"Shut it, Buzz."

The dog definitely smelled it on him, thought Chuck. Or maybe it was his body spray, which the can claimed was "Cool Vibe"-scented. Either way, damn Buzz's nose.

The dog whined.

"That's enough," said the pock-faced man behind the counter. Chuck assumed he was Haney. Whoever he was, he looked up from the dog with eyes the color of bad eggs.

Chuck flinched. He knew he did. But he wasn't sure if it shivered out or not.

Something like a smile tweaked at the edges of Haney's mouth. It was about the only place on his face unsullied by ridges and wrinkles. Haney, it seemed, was not the smiling type.

"Forget Buzz. Barks jus' t'prove he still can."

The grin was a challenge, a dare. A threat, Chuck thought. No. Knew. His spindly fingers drew into angry fists. Haney was trying to intimidate him. And it was working.

"What can I do ya for?" asked Haney. His eyelids hung at half-mast, a memoriam for sixty years lived in sweat and blisters.

"Bug spray," said Chuck. He didn't even manage the second word before yelling at himself in the comfort of his own mind. Bug spray. Not only was it weak, it was wrong. Chuck had no problem with bugs - it was the spiders that got to him. But no man would ever admit as much, least of all in Haney's Hardware. Bug spray was bad improv, but at least Chuck didn't ask for spider...poison or whatever else he might've blurted. He flailed for a word, a phrase, the most masculine way he came up with back at his apartment- "Like pest control, I mean."

"Ahh. Yup. It's 'at season alright. What kind of bugs you got?" Haney leaned over the counter and it groaned in unheeded protest.

"Like flies," said Chuck. He had to lead up to spiders. Make it sound like a nuisance more than a crippling phobia that confined him to his room for fifteen hours the Sunday before. "Roaches, I think I saw." Chuck remembered hearing them called palmetto bugs on a family trip to Florida, but it was too soft a euphemism for Haney's. "And spiders." The gray caterpillars over Haney's eyes hunched and squirmed. "Lots of spiders."