There’s a gas station around the block from my house that serves THE most delectable chocolate chip cookies. They’re larger cookies with a diameter of about 8 inches and a 1-inch thickness. These cookies are loaded with chocolate chips, not just semi-sweet either. They mix in dark chocolate chips at a perfect 1:1 ratio. I’m sure they lace these cookies with cocaine too. Addictive doesn’t even begin to describe them. Obsessive? Maybe. Fanatic? Yes. Sometimes I’ll go to this gas station 2, maybe 3, times a day just to see if they have baked a fresh batch. I’ll usually pick up two of them, along with a can of Red Bull and a pack of Prime Time mini-cigars.
As often as I’m at said gas station, I’ve never really tried to befriend the help. It would probably be in my best interest to express a little interest in their lives. A small expenditure of energy that would probably insure a few freebies and the esteemed privilege of “cherry picking” the treasure trove of cookie inventory I can only assume is kept in the ever-mysterious backroom.
There's this guy who works the graveyard shift (which is usually when I come in as I’m a vampire, minus the faggy ruffled shirt of course). I don’t know his name but his nametag reads “Big Bear.” He is a portly, jovial man about 5’ 7” with a bushy, under-conditioned mullet. He wears very large aviator, cult-leader style, slightly tinted glasses and has a well-trimmed Jesus beard. I feel a definite child molester vibe from this guy. I can’t quite put my finger on it. Perhaps it’s the high-pitched, nervous giggle he emits after every fucking lame-ass joke he always gives while ringing up my merchandise. Or maybe it’s the piercing, lingering stare he gives his patrons. Or maybe I'm misreading Big-bear completely? Maybe in reality he’s a lonely 35-year old man who still lives in his mother’s basement. Maybe his life consists of playing video games, watching Star Trek, and jacking off to naked photos of Jeri Ryan. Maybe he’s been saving his pitiful paychecks so he can finally afford to buy that movie-replica Darth Vader armor he’s been lusting after for the past 2 years which costs around three thousand dollars?
Then there’s “Missy.” She usually works the closing shift that I’m guessing ranges between 3-10 pm. She desperately wants to be noticed by me, by you, hell, by anyone. She is one of those anonymous faces that disappear in the crowd, never standing out. One of those faces your eyes will often pass right over because you are always looking for someone else...anyone other than her. Missy is quiet as a mouse and just as nervous and skittish as a mouse too. When I come in to buy my junk she always gives me a shy smile. She tries to initiate meaningless conversation inquiring about the weather, about my purchases, about my life, and I know this takes all of the courage inside that squat little body of hers. I know the polite little one-line responses I give her, as inane as they may seem to me, mean everything to her. It is the air she breathes and the water she drinks to stay alive. The hurried, formal and polite conversation I give her feeds her fantasy. It's a mental snapshot she saves for later when she goes home and frigs herself and shoves that 10” dildo up her pussy as her 7 cats solemnly watch on; as Paula Cole sings her sweet songs.
So the question I ask myself is this: Would it be worth my while to establish a friendship based solely on lies with these poor souls so I may satisfy my selfish cravings for some cocaine-laced chocolate chip cookies? Would it be right to fuck with their very fragile, very suicidal minds and lead them to believe I actually give a fuck, that I actually care, so I may have access to that elusive back storeroom?
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