Short Story Saturday: Clerk

CLERK

I stare at this bitch. I'm peeving. All I wanted was five minutes to take a fucking shit. I had the sign in place. The door locked. Forty-three fucking seconds, that's what I got. Not even enough time to get my goddamn pants around my ankles. Then she blew her damn horn repeatedly and started beating the shit out of the store's door.

“That's it, break the fucking glass. What, you don't know how to read a fucking sign?” I wanted to scream it, but I managed to keep it at a mumble as I made my way to the front of the store.

I unlocked the door and ripped my 'RESTROOM. BE BACK IN 5 MINUTES' sign from it. I let the bitch in and returned to my post behind the cash register.

So, I'm standing here, staring at her. Oh, I'm sure she can tell by my face that I'm pissed.

“You can't go locking the door to a twenty-four-hour store. People got things to do,” she says, attitude spraying from her like some unwanted facial shot, but at this moment, I'd much rather be sucking someone's dick than dealing with this cunt.

It's two-fucking-thirty in the morning. What things do you need to be doing at this hour? is what I want to say. Instead what leaves my mouth is, “Hello, how may I help you?” and I try to smile the best I can.

“I need five on whatever pump that is.” She throws a twenty at me after she waves her hand toward the parking lot. It misses both my hand and the counter, then floats to the floor, and I bend down to pick it up.

“I ain't in the fucking mood, bitch.” It's a whisper, a mere breath of air, but she's heard something.

“Excuse me,” she says, accusingly.

“That's pump one. Five out of twenty.” I press the keys on the register. “Fifteen's your change.” I set the money on the counter. She didn't give me the courtesy to put the money in my hand, it's only fair I do the same. At least, I didn't throw it at her.

“My hand's right here. You need to put the money in it,” she says, and rage boils through me.

“With all due respect, Miss, I am only returning your gesture,” I say through gritted teeth.

“I'll have your fucking job! You don't get away with treating customers like this. The customer's always right, and this customer is going to let your manager know they should fire you.”

“Whatever, lady. You came in here rude from the get-go. You tell my manager whatever you wish, but it's all on video.” I point to the three separate cameras aimed in her direction. “You have a nice night.”

I turn to go about my business, and a candy rack crashes into the cigarette shelf, inches from my head. That's assault, bitch, I think it was just a thought and that I didn't say it out loud. I guess I'm just lucky this cunt's got bad aim.

I've made up my mind and turn. The bitch is heading for the door with quickening steps. I grab the rack and jump the counter. I draw my arm back, building momentum, and then slam the rack forward, bashing her skull with it. The door buzzer's dinging where she's pulled it open, but it stops as the door is pushed closed by her falling frame.

The corner of the rack put a nice sized hole in her head. There's some blood spattered across the door and on a few other things like the newspaper rack. I'll have to clean the area, but first, I glance out the door to make sure no one's out in the car or the parking lot. It's clear.

I drag the unconscious cunt to the storage room next to the cooler. I hope she'll be out for a few more minutes. I go and re-lock the door and quickly wipe away any noticeable blood. I also replace my sign to its spot on the door and grab the candy rack before heading back to the storage room.

Blood's pooled around her head. Why do head wounds always have to bleed like a bitch for? I smash her head several times with the candy rack, crushing it between the rack and the concrete floor that thankfully is painted with a latex paint. That makes the cleaning easier. I'm glad Doug took my suggestion seriously, you know, with all the spills that happen in here. It would be so much harder to clean up the blood and brain matter if he hadn't. Briefly, I'm thrown into a memory of scrubbing at shit—from spilled intestines—for hours, trying to clean it before the floor was painted. Now, all it takes is a little wiping, a once-over with a mop, and ta-da, it's clean.

But, the work never ends for a convenience store clerk. After I get the bitch's body in two extra-large garbage bags, I go out and move her car, backing it into the parking spot closest to the door. I drag the double-bagged garbage through the store, glancing frequently to the parking lot. I've left the trunk open on the car, and after I reach the door and pull her through, I lug her up into the open trunk. After slamming the lid close, I walk back inside.

I pick up the phone and punch in the number for my partner, Joy. I listen to it ring, and she answers, groggily, “Hey.”

“Hey, babe, I've got another car that needs moving,” I say.

“Sure thing. I'll be there in an hour.” She hangs up, and I go back to cleaning.

A couple customers come in while I'm trying to clean, but they're too drunk to notice anything. I have to tell them it's too late for alcohol, and they get irritated, but they leave without a fight.

Once Joy's come and taken the car to the quarry, the last thing for me to do is deal with the video. I make my way to the office with the lockbox key in my hand. I hate this job, but not as much as before. Now that I'm assistant manager, I can get away with just about anything.