• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

By Root 312 0

scuttles behind a pyramid of Here travel coffee mugs. He quickly shrugs the bathrobe to the floor, then slips the T-shirt over his head. It’s stiff and scratchy and has that “Made in China, Shipped to the U.S.A.” plasticky smell that is especially disconcerting when the object isn’t made of plastic. The shirt reaches long enough to cover his torso but has so much excess material around the neck, chest, and gut that it would be a perfect choice for Marcus and his conjoined twin. He wishes he had stuck with the bathrobe. But now that it’s off, he has no choice but to bend over and pick it up, along with the women’s-size-S shirt that fell on the floor.

He steps out from behind the mugs to model the shirt for the sales-clerk, but he’s already returned his attention to his texting. Marcus neatly refolds the women’s-size-S T-shirt over one arm and slings the bathrobe over the other. For the next few minutes, Marcus circuits the store, picking up a few items that hopefully won’t push his already straining credit card past its limit:

one (1) pair of women’s-size-S boxer shorts with JERSEY GIRL embroidered on the ass

one (1) pair of men’s-size-L boxer shorts with JERSEY GUY embroidered on the crotch

one (1) I ♥ NJ shot glass

one twin-pack (two cupcakes) chocolate Hostess cupcakes

one (1) dental hygiene travel kit, including a folding toothbrush, mini toothpaste, and floss

one deck of playing cards

“Do you have any candles?” Marcus asks as he approaches the register.

The salesclerk snorts. “Nope. And no matches or lighters, either. They’re considered dangerous.” He grins in an unfriendly way. Marcus can’t imagine that anyone would have his teeth sanded down to achieve this strange aquatic aesthetic, yet he can’t imagine what confluence of genetic material would lead to such a malocclusious reversal in human evolution.

The salesclerk rings up the items, including the T-shirt already on Marcus’s back. Marcus hands over his credit card, which the plane ticket has surely put within a decimal point of obsolescence. The card does clear, and Marcus sighs in relief as he signs the receipt. The clerk places the items in a SHOP Here bag, and as their transaction is about to come to its logical conclusion, Marcus is compelled to ask a question: “Why did you trust me?”

The salesclerk snorts. “I didn’t.”

“You didn’t?”

“Oh, no. No way. I still don’t.”

“Why not?”

“I know a tweaker when I see one.”

“Tweaker? As in meth?! What?!”

“Oh, don’t try to deny it. You’re skin and bones and so strung out that you can’t even get dressed.”

Marcus barks out a retaliatory laugh. “I may look a little, er, unhinged, but I’m not a tweaker!”

“The first step is admitting you have a problem.”

Marcus knows he could just grab his bag and go. But he needs to know one more thing. “If you thought I was a shoplifting drug addict, why did you let me put on the shirt before I paid for it?”

The salesclerk flexes and releases his fingers. “I was hoping you’d try to steal it.”

“You were—what?” Marcus asks, slowly backing away from the register. “Why?”

The clerk’s crazy eyes gleam as he reaches below the counter and pulls out a silver device that looks like a cross between an electric razor and a vibrator. “I wanted an excuse to Tase you.”

Marcus reels backward. “W-w-why would you want to do that?”

He aims the Taser at Marcus, smiling wider than ever. “You look like the guy who screwed my ex-girlfriend.”

For the first time, Marcus makes note of the name tag: NICK. Did he screw Nick’s girlfriend? Maybe he did. But Marcus is certain he’s never seen this Nick before. He would’ve remembered those teeth. Those teeth. Then again, maybe the teeth weren’t always like that. Maybe Nick had a perfectly varied set of incisors, canines, and molars until he jawed them down to uniformity, as a teeth-grinding tweaker might do. And with this leery admission comes the follow-up realization: Maybe Marcus did screw this Taser-toting salesclerk’s girlfriend. Maybe he met the girlfriend at a Pine Barrens bonfire, or at a beach party, or in a beer-skunked basement in the