*this was my 'final revision' of Sick is the New Black. It's almost an entirely different story, to be honest. Written for my Fiction writing class 2017.
Fluorescent lights hum above Richard Price's head.
Moths outside the glass door lightly tap their wings against the OPEN sign.
Still air, stuffy with the bitterness of coffee and sweet things.
This place smells like 12 AM.
The door swings open, the metal joints giving a squeak. A tall man wearing a baggy sweater, his hands stuffed inside the pockets, walks towards the coffee machine. His large feet are barely audible on the dirt-stained floor, droned out by the faint sound of everything else. The clock ticking and tocking. The freezer buzzing. The quiet gurgling sound of hot coffee hitting the bottom of a Styrofoam cup and the yawn of someone pouring his first cup. There is no radio in this place. No late night songs to drown the annoying ambience of idleness and lethargy of a convenience store. The man with the large quiet feet, coffee in one hand, makes his way over to the counter to pay.
"Three dollars and fifty cents," Richard's voice breaks through the background. He watches as the man fishes out a bill from his jeans. Neither of them talks as Richard punches the large keys on the cash register. The man shoves the receipt and the change back into his pocket and leaves just as quietly as he entered.
Richard watches as the baggy sweater disappears into a black Verna, then that into the night.
It was likely that no one else will be coming, except for the truck drivers, and he knew they won't come for another four hours. He pulls out the chair from under him and slides his ass down the seat until he could lay his head back on the top rail. He has nothing else to stare at but the ceiling. He knew if he closed his eyes, they aren't going to open again until sunlight, when everything in the store would have been ransacked. A sigh sounding more like an exhale, neutral in its escape, flares his nostrils. He never sighed for the sake of emotional expression; he sighed to feel his lungs empty. He glances at the clock mounted on the opposite wall, above the laundry detergents. No doubt his manager is fast asleep.
The sudden draft of cold air that hits his cheek immediately pries his eyes open. "Oh fuck," falls from his mouth as he realizes he was at the edge of sleep. His black eyes sweep over the store until they land on a teenager walking around. Poor kid looks like shit, he thinks to himself. Richard watches him closely, partially due to suspicion. The black hoodie, blemished with white spots, hides the top half of his pale face. The teenager more or less staggered around the store, from aisle to aisle. Richard tries to imagine what is hiding inside his jacket pocket.
Several unproductive minutes passed - unproductive in terms of choosing an item to buy. Richard watches as the teenager clad in black finally stops. His eyes follow the teenager's hood as he exits the hygiene aisle. In his hand, four men's disposable razor. Richard's eyes glance at the teenager's hairless jaw. He feels the urge to speak as the teen places the items on the counter.
"Four razors in the middle of the night," comments Richard. "Never seen that before. I've seen weirder shit, but I've never seen this before." He swipes the barcode over the red laser beam. "Twelve fifty."
The teenager hands him a twenty dollar bill, eyes silent and staring back at Richard's.
"It's good to be prepared," Richard mutters.
"Look man, I'm not interested in talking. I'm done trying to talk." The teenager grabs the razors from the counter and turns to the door.
"Hey, kid, your change!" Richard calls out.
