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Ch. 1
My best friend Morgue’s tapping out a garage-rock symphony with his ratty-ass Converses as he stares at the clock, just like the rest of us are staring at the clock. Emma, our sole cashier, is having some hot tongue play with her plum-purple bubblegum. I’m mostly quiet, but even I’m cracking my knuckles, half-absentmindedly, and really, can you blame me? There’s a lot of sound in Youtopia Beauty, but not too many customers. There’s one lanky little chick wandering through the skin care aisle who looks interested in our merch, but she also looks dead-broke judging by her Hot Topic clearance-rack outfit, so the sell’s a long shot. A few other people are casually flirting with some bottles and boxes of our organic brand of makeup--the name, Organique, basically spells out what a cheap rip-off of a brand it is, so I’m not exactly expecting an influx of purchases by closing time.
Speaking of closing time– shouldn’t I be outta here by now?
I spot Kay, our pink-haired boss, hovering near one of our potential clients, and I groan; I have a sinking feeling in my stomach that she’s not going to let us leave until some poor little kid finally trades in some dough for some Organique, or at least a bottle of a hair spray.
“Oh my god.” Between her noisy gum popping, Emma rolls her eyes and sticks her hand into her purse. “How much money do we have to put in to the goddamn cash register so we can go home all ready?” She flings a few dollars and shiny little coins at the machine, and Morgue and I attempt a laugh. The five-dollar digital piece of **** on the wall is flashing 7:35, and no offense to Em or anything, but our sense of humor had gone six feet under about three hours ago.
But we echo her sentiments. It’s Friday night. Anyone browsing a beauty care store at this hour needs a CAT scan– or, I guess, a boyfriend.
Suddenly the mallgoth by the Proactive puts her black-fingered nails on some cream, and Kay swoops. Within half a second she’s there by the girl’s side, offering her maternalistic advice about what exactly will clear up that gross little volcanic eruption near her chin. Batting her eyes and crooning false, seductive nothings from outlined lips, Kay’s doing her best to ensure Youtopia will stay open at least until the end of June. “Honey, sweetie, this stuff’s just the thing you need. A little dab a day keeps the dermatologist away!” She grins and winks and does everything but a song and dance, yet still the girl hesitates. “Hey, I used to be a bit of a pizzaface, myself, babe, but then I found this stuff and look at me now!” Her head turns to the side so we can all admire her flawless skin. “And at just $7.95, it’s a steal!”
At $7.95, it’s nothing but morbidly overpriced crap, but the girl bashfully flicks aside a chemically-altered bang and half-skips to the counter, cream in hand. Sighing, Emma stands up straight for the first time all day, and taps her nails across the cash register. “That’ll be eight dollars and twelve cents.” With a weird sort of glee, the girl deposits the cash and leaves, along with most of the other losers in the store. That leaves one bald-headed dude in the back who I’m pretty sure is under the impression this is an adult toy store, and once he’s wandered off we’ll all be home free.
Morgue doesn’t have the patience to wait for him. “Kayyy,” He whines from the back of his throat like a hungry cat. “Let us leave already, it’s late as hell. Besides, slavery was abolished about 150 years ago.”
The devil herself, looking pleased as hell, slinks over and smiles at us. “Just a few more minutes. Today’s payday, you know. If you guys don’t shut up I’m not going to give you a check until next week.” We simultaneously revolt.
“That’s illegal, Kay!” Em says, blowing a bubble furiously.
“We could report you,” I add in as threateningly as possible.
She clucks her tongue and dispels our protests with one wave of her hennaed hand. “As your boss, that would be a dishonest thing for me to do. However, seeing as each one of you has asked over the years to borrow my car, my money, and/or one of my bedrooms, it’s completely in my power to be a ***** at the moment. I want this store to stay open as long as humanely possible, all right? And I know you all would rather be working here than at some greasy McDonald’s or something, anyway. So stop your bitching and go see if that man is interested in anything.”
I’d rather be anywhere but trailing some unemployed old guy with a beer belly, but I’d also rather have a little more green in my jeans, if you know what I mean, so I slide over to the oldie and work my magic.
“Hello there, sir, how may I help you?”
He turns to me and gives me the once-over, and apparently he doesn’t appreciate what he sees because he grunts and returns his focus to the shelves. Not that I’d want him appreciate my looks, seeing as he’s old...and a man...and not that I’m against people who are into that kinda thing– Morgue’s gay, and it doesn’t phase me at all– but if the dude checked me out or something that would be really freaky, you know, and wow, why am I wasting all this time talking to myself? Homer Simpson’s long-lost twin brother is over now by some of that new hair renewal shampoo we just ordered, staring lustily at the pictures of the men with furry scalps that grace the sides of the bottles. Ah, of course– the man’s probably been having some issues with his wife lately, and he thinks he can get her back if only he had a full head of hair. Alright, I just have to work off of that. Lots of hair = sex appeal. Okay, okay, let’s do this.
“That’s our best selling shampoo,” I call out to him– fortunately, he now seems to think a teenage boy with shaggy hair may actually be worth listening to. “Lots of men with your...condition...buy that product, and they come back with really good results.” I’m talking out of my ass– something I’ve never been good at– but the man has his eyebrows raised and is holding onto the bottle, intrigued. ‘Go on,’ the arched caterpillars seem to say, and I do. “It works fast, too. I’m pretty sure it’s even won awards for being so...” I rack my limited vocabulary for a fancy word to spice up my presentation, “Hairologically advanced.”
The guy has the hygiene of a redneck, but apparently not the intelligence of one, as he snorts and looks at me like I’m braindead. “‘Hairologically advanced’?” He repeats, mocking me, like a guy who hasn’t been able to see his feet in several years has the right to be poking fun. “Get away from me, kid, I can look around by myself. I’m a big boy.”
“That’s for sure,” I mutter in what I think is a really quiet voice, but the dude must have the hearing of a bat or some **** like that because he turns on me, roaring.
“What the **** did you say, you little dickweed?!”
He pushes me away and I laugh despite feeling slightly terrorized. We definitely need to start marketing to a less pathetic customer base. In the one and a half years I’ve worked here, we’ve always seemed to attract the lowest scum of the Earth to our store– and not the slutty, makeup-smeared kind, either. I’ve only seen three gorgeous girls walk in here since the day I started– one a lesbian, one a snob, and one a chick I’ve liked on and off since I was ten. If you’re wondering who it is, you don’t have to look far beyond that ever-present purple bubble to see who I’m talking about. I’ve never really said it around her, but those Playboy bunnies ain’t got jackshit in comparison to Em. She may not have the biggest rack or anything but she’s more than easy on the eyes, with that short little chestnut bob and really bright blue eyes that are hard to ignore when they’re smothered in liner and shadow. And it doesn’t hurt that she has a fetish for fishnet stockings and low-cut tees; I’m not going to lie, I’ve sneaked a peek down her shirt more than just a few times. Hey, for a guy, I think I do it pretty subtly, too. So far she hasn’t slapped me yet, so I must be doing something right.
At this point, Whatshisface McBaldy is totally out of my sight, and from the jingling of the bell above our front entrance, it looks like he’s out of Youtopia completely. I sigh in relief and walk back to the counter. Everyone’s mood is lifted, even Kay’s, and with a cheerfulness usually seen only around Christmastime, she hands each one of us an envelope and heads to the backroom to close up.
“Yes!” Morgue shouts, high-fiving Em and ripping off the stupid apron we have to wear as part of our uniform. Emma hums a chorus from some summer ditty and pecks us both on the cheek before she walks out the door, which is her way of saying goodbye when she’s in a really good mood.
“You heading home?” I ask Morgue as we look around the store for any puddles or spills.
“Nah.” He flips back his dark-blue hair with a toss of his head, sighing. “I’m going over Rob’s, he said he wanted to talk to me or whatever. I think he’s thinking of breaking up.”
“Aw, dude, I’m sorry. Why would he want to break up with you, man? You guys seemed like a really nice couple.”
He shrugs. “I thought so too, but whatever. I’ve missed being single, anyway.” Morgue lightens up a bit and shifts topic. “Speaking about breakups, I’ve heard Em and Jake had this huge fight and they’re basically Splitsville now.”
I try to act cool about it, but it’s hard when I realize this might be my chance to be with her. “Seriously?”
“Seriously. Come on, just go over her house and ask her out, Foss. I’m like 99.9% sure she likes you back.”
I grin, but I’m not buying it. “Don’t try to cheer me up, man, it’s not going to work out.”
“She told me, swear to God. I wasn’t supposed to tell you, but desperate times call for desperate measures.” He puts a hand on my shoulder and turns me around so we’re face to face. “Derek George Foss, do you or do you not have testicles?”
My eyes roll and I groan. “Shut up, Mor--”
“I mean it. Do you or do you not have testicles?”
“I do.”
“Are you or are you not a man?”
“I am.”
“Then go to Emma’s house like the testosterone-filled manly man you are and tell her that you love her. Girls dig assertive guys. I read it in People.”
My eyebrow’s raised almost to my forehead, and I’m trying to laugh it off but I’m beginning to think my good old friend Morgan may have a point. “You seriously think she likes me back?”
“I honestly, seriously think she does, cross my heart and hope to die.” He pats my back and walks into the backroom to get his coat. But before he goes in, he gives me this one last glance, as if trying to inject some confidence into me through the linking of our eyes. With a soft grin he says, “Go get her, tiger,” and all of a sudden I’m left to my own defenses.
Copyright 2008 Sneh =]
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