Who's the Boss?
Nick Carraway“You’re not gonna steal anything this time, are you?”
said the clean, quick woman in the green uniform shirt.
Her short brunette bobs, her name tag subtly flutters,
Single hints of nerves on a girl grown up in this store.
“You can come in if you promise not to steal.”
His meek mug peeks out of a dingy flannel like a chastised child,
Just released from time-out somewhere out there in the cold.
“No, I’m not gonna steal anything.”
His oversized ruddy plaid balloon body floats down the candy aisle.
Hands still concealed,
Unseen in pockets.
Face still clouded,
Unkempt in scruff and prickle.
Vision still shrouded,
In shadowy hood above and dark dumpy bags below
The whole store turns to survey.
Coffee stops pouring.
Register no longer clinging.
Hands cease mid-reach for treats
And eyes find an unseeming feast
Between manager’s nervous smile,
On a woman part timed, late shifted, and duty rattled,
And mischief’s shifty grin,
On a man full tilted, empty stared, and drug addled.
The whole store half looks
Then glances back on vanilla creamer and pasty receipts
A turkey sandwich waits to be made,
Then…
He does an about-face, turns,
And charges
Toward the cashier.
She stops, stares,
And stuck,
Stumbles midstride.
The store studies options
Scouting counters, marking back doors
A can of wild cherry Pepsi stands abandoned,
Begging to burst on the checkout.
Hidden hands emerge,
Dark eye sockets kindle,
His upturned puss speaks,
“Hey! Do you got those new Reeses? The puffy ones?”
The store stutters,
Rustles in relief.
Doors reopen.
Ham is sliced.
Change is checked and pocketed.
The others are just visitors here.
They will come and go.
But she and he will stay, leave and return.
This small stale store world belongs to them,
And they to it.
And everyone else left to wonder
Who is really in charge?
Reader Comments (2)
I remember as a kid heading into 7-11 with a plan to steal all they had. It was my friends who would do it since I never had the true guts to steal. I always felt guilty and nothing ever tasted right afterwards. Man, I tried to be a thief, but it wasn't in my bones.
So they made me a look out. I was the diversion. Kids with a clearer vision of the haves and have nots took to the rows of candy and snacks and corrected an imbalance in the system. The clerk would be helpless. They knew what we were there for and they would turn their backs and refill the hotdogs. They understood what we were doing and were as part of the summers as any of us. We would come back the next afternoon and drink big gulps and slurpees and laugh together and pay. But the night shift was ours.
We would sit across the street. They would not share the spoils and I never asked. They would eat staring at the store throwing the trash on the ground. Rebels against something they didn't know yet, but felt. Glad for the store, waiting for the next batch of kids to come and torment the night shift guy who stood studying a text book hearing the ticks of the clock.
Great idea for poem. You have a subtle eye for a narrative and quick pen for detail. When they mix it is the most enjoyable of literary drinks.
I used to work in a convenience store and I was on duty when it was robbed by a scruffy guy. I was not yet 20. Guess I am lucky he didn't shoot. Guess, in a way, you're lucky too.