Back to day 2

I closed at 4 a.m., but not before two punks broke the drink dispenser, and I had to mop the mess up.

A teenager who looked like he was twelve tried to pass off his brother’s driver’s license as his own and buy alcohol. No dice. He dropped the F-bomb, flipped me the bird, then ran out and jumped on his bicycle. Surprised it wasn’t a Rayzor.

A pack of tween girls came in around 9, asked for gum, then ran off behind the shelves and giggled. Weird. But even weirder was the lone old guy with a trench coat and ski hat who came in and spent 20 minutes fondling the contents of a box of Hostess Snowballs. I asked him to leave after he started grunting.

A drunk man staggered in around 11 pm and tried to piss on the floor of the breakroom. I pushed him into the manager’s vacant office. Pretty sure he took a crap in there. Somewhere. The office smelled, but the trash was empty when I looked in it. I’d have looked around more, but they don’t pay me enough to give a shit.

At 1 a.m., several goths showed up, bought every bag of Twizzlers, and then sat outside for 45 minutes vaping. I’m not sure if they ate the sticks or took turns inserting them into each other.

Raj showed up, looking awful and smelling like he’d hotboxed in a port-o-potty. There was no juice at his place. With six people in his one-bedroom roach motel, I suspect taking a bath required a day planner. I closed my register and made my deposit. Another minimum wage contribution to our corporate overlords.

Walked home, staying close to the streetlights. If I’m going to get mugged, I want to see them coming. But honestly, I had nothing anyone would want. Except for a dropped bag of Twizzlers and some molested Snowballs.

I passed the Windor’s house and found police tape over the side window. The lights were off, and the generator was silent, which was good for me but bad for them. I wondered what happened, but I didn’t spend too much time feeling sympathy. At least I would be able to sleep in peace.

Got back to the crib, but still no power.

Found Hicks sitting on my couch, in the dark, looking at a National Geographic magazine. He had a crazed look and a hot dog in his hand.

“What are you doing?”

“Huh?” His eyes seemed to focus for a moment. “Want a dog?”

“To pet or eat?”

He smiled.

“Oh god, it’s not pet and eat, right?”

“Nah, have one,” Hicks said, waving his wiener – ahem – hot dog around.

“If you touched it, then no.”

“There’s a bag of them on the kitchen counter.”

I looked, and sure enough, there they were, in an opened package and pre-cooked.  I took one. It felt chilled. “Hey, were these refrigerated?”

Hicks smiles again.

“Where’d you get them?”

No answer. Just a chuckle. “Do you care?”

“Nah. I’m wiped. Going to sleep. Don’t bother me, okay?”

“Fine by me. I gotta be somewhere in an hour anyway.” He held up the magazine. “Can I have this?”

“Yeah, but promise me one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“Don’t bring it back.”

Hicks chuckled again. But all I could see was that old guy squeezing the Snowballs. Ick.

Fell asleep anyway. Woke up to the sounds of the windows rattling and flashing lights outside my windows. WTF?

On to day 4