Page 5 of Escaping Our Reality

I hand him a ten-dollar bill, and he flips it over, studying it. He smiles, flashing his smoke-stained teeth. Handing me the change, he points, “Napkins on the table.”

My voice wavers slightly. “Thank you.”

I feel his eyes on me as I cross the store, and it feels like a thousand fire ants are crawling across my bare skin. Itching. Burning.

Damn skeeving me out.

In perfect timing, the door chimes, announcing the arrival of a new customer, and the cashier’s attention is diverted elsewhere. I sit at the first booth on the side that faces the register. I want to see everything this guy does. I scoot to the right, partially hiding myself behind a four-foot-tall cardboard cutout hailing the greatness of a new candy bar flavor. I open the glass bottle and take a small swig of the drink.

Surprisingly,it isvery good.

Excellent, actually. But I still wouldn’t drive thirty minutes one way for it.

I tear off a small piece of chicken skin and quietly chew, watching the transaction at the register with one eye.

Huh. Marcum’s right. The chicken’s not half bad.

I eat slowly and do my best to nonchalantly observe all of my surroundings, absorbing each and every detail. I’m on my fourth bite of chicken when my attention peaks to high-alert. An attractive woman, dressed in an expensive, fine-tailored navy-blue pantsuit with stylish nude pumps, heads to the counter with a bottle of Slayton’s Southern Blackberry Tea clutched in her perfectly manicured hand. I quickly chew and swallow, nearly choking, so I can hear the interaction without interference from my own loud mouth.

She places the bottle on the counter and slides a folded bill across the stained Formica. The cashier smirks. “That’ll be it?”

“Yes. Could you place my drink in a paper bag, please?”

His smirk grows to shit-eatin’ status, and he grunts. “Let me grab one from the back.” He takes the money and tea with him as he disappears behind the interior doorway with the ‘Employees Only’ sign hanging above the doorframe. The woman impatiently taps her foot against the tile floor.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

She nervously glances out the glass door. I suppose she’s checking on her vehicle.

Suddenly, the cashier’s greasy head pops from the abyss, and he places a small brown paper bag on the countertop. “That’ll be $4.31.” He unfolds the bill. “Out of five.” His fingers make nimble work of the register, and it pops open, where he makes her change.

She bolts from the store as soon as the coins are in her hand, causing him to chuckle under his breath.

My mind swirls in deep concentration. What the hell was that all about? That was weird.

I spend the next hour at the gas station. When my chicken breast is nothing more than a pile of bones, I buy a bottle of water and a candy bar, just to give me something else to do without raising suspicion for not leaving. Not that I really need to worry about that; the cashier decides not to pay me any more attention. I’m just a fly on the wall. And for that, I am thankful. Because his gaze irks me. And makes me want to gouge his eyeballs out with a coat hanger.

The visit does prove interesting, though.

Three more people come into the store to buy the same tea. A complete and total variety of people. One middle-aged man who looks like a factory worker who has just gotten off shift. One teenage girl wearing a shirt that is two sizes too small with a skirt that barely covers her cellulite-covered butt cheeks. And one young guy in his twenties, with a pock-scarred face, who looks completely strung out and paranoid.

Each transaction is just as odd as the first, with the cashier leaving the counter to grab a paper bag from the back supply room. If people like those dang paper bags so much, why not keep them under the register?

I climb into my SUV, just as the parking lot lights buzz to life underneath the darkened night sky. They hum like mosquitoes in the summer. The garage door is still open at the body shop across the way. In the shadows, a body leans against the doorframe, studying me. My heart flitters in my chest, like a hummingbird racing around the garden.

I quickly lock my doors.

I turn my radio off and drive in silence.

Think. Think. Think.

Why does Carrie go there? Why does Carrie drive all the way out there for gas? For tea?

Maybe she’s secretly dating someone who works there. Not the guy who was working there today, obviously. But maybe someone like the guy across the street at the body shop...assuming his front side looks as good as his back side.

Maybe there’s some big corporate conspiracy. Maybe that company puts some sort of addictive additive in their drink, and Carrie needs it, like a smoker needs nicotine or a caffeine addict needs a cup of coffee.

Think. Think. Think.

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