Print This Post
Right before sundown, this kid, eleven or twelve years old, walked into the little market and tossed a note written on a piece of sky-blue paper on the counter.
“From my dad,” he said, like it was a royal decree. Before I could respond, he disappeared down the candy aisle, sneakers squeaking on the tile. Barry, the manager had hired me two days before, and I was glad to get the job in spite of the hour-long drive from my dorm at Arizona State. I needed this to stay in school. Barry assured me I could handle it alone. A Wednesday night shift would be quiet, dead in fact. I was hoping to get some homework done.
The note said, “One half gallon of Ancient Age and three packs of Camels. Sean can get what he wants with the change R.W. McKellips.”
“I can’t sell you liquor or cigarettes,” I called after him.
“Could you get me a bottle of Coke?” he yelled, squatting down for a large bag of chips. “The quart size. They’re up too high. I can’t reach them.”
“Are you listening? I am not selling you bourbon or cigarettes.” The kid stood up, looking surprised.
That’s when a gun clattered onto the floor. I nearly jumped out of my skin. The kid picked it up as casually as could be and came toward me. This little maniac had two candy bars, a beef jerky stick, and a large bag of pork rinds in his right hand while holding a snub-nosed revolver awkwardly in his left.
“What the hell are you doing with a gun?” I said, my voice cracking. He shrugged, like it was no big deal.
“Dogs.”
“Dogs?”
“Yeah, wild ones. In the tree line.” He said it with a tone that made me feel like an idiot for asking.
“Are you kidding?” I said. “You brought a gun to the store because of some dogs?”
“In case they attack me. They’re worse after dark. They followed me.”
I instinctively looked out the front windows. The store bordered a massive citrus grove, twenty-five miles east of Phoenix. “I don’t see any dogs.”
“They’re hiding under the trees to follow me home.” I didn’t believe this little twerp for one second. I just wanted him out of the store.
“I think you better leave. Take your gun and your fake note and get out. I’m not selling bourbon or smokes to a minor.”
“It’s not for me; it’s for my dad.”
“It’s still against the law,” I said raising my eyebrows and my voice.
“I do this all the time. My dad is R. W. McKellips. He owns everything around here; he even owns this store!” He waved the gun around for emphasis, not threatening, not pointing at anything, but I still ducked behind the counter. “You know, it’s assholes like you who get fired!”
“I’ll sure as hell get fired if I sell you liquor and cigarettes. And stop waving that goddammed gun around!” The snot finally lowered the pistol.
“Sorry,” he said and sounded like he meant it.
“Tell you what,” I said after short silence. “You put the gun on the counter, and I’ll go back with you and get your Coke. We can talk about your dad’s stuff afterwords. Deal?”
The kid slowly nodded, gave up the weapon and turned toward the coolers. As soon as he did, I grabbed it and stuffed it into my back pocket. I got him his Coke, rang him up, and made change for the twenty he handed me.
“Where’s the whisky and cigs?” he whined. “And where’s my gun?”
“Sorry, kid,” I said, sliding the bag across the counter. “If your dad wants his gun back, he can haul his ass down here himself. And maybe bring some ID while he’s at it. I’ll be happy to sell him whiskey and cigarettes then.”
The boy stomped his foot and stormed out. It felt good to outsmart that little scammer.
As I lifted the register tray to stow the twenty, I discovered a piece of sky-blue paper, with the same note as the one the kid had tossed at me. This one had a receipt clipped to it with Barry’s scrawled handwriting.
“Call R.W. No more IOUs. From now on Sean pays with cash.” My stomach sank as I realized the little jerk had been telling the truth all along. Barry would probably fire me. Even for doing the right thing.
I slammed the register and ran to catch the kid.
I found Sean in the parking lot, frozen under the flickering lights. Three large dogs appeared from the tree line across the street. The lead, a massive white boxer, head down, teeth bared edged toward him.
I fumbled for the gun in my pocket just as the dog charged. I don’t remember aiming or shooting, but the gun went off twice and left my ears ringing. I missed both shots, of course. The boxer jumped straight up and ran sideways across the street. He and the other dogs scattered into the trees. I ran to the boy whose face was an oval of shock and awe. Then his sarcastic little smile returned.
“Nice shooting, partner. You managed to miss both times,” he said as if we were suddenly pals. I handed him the gun.
Bourbon and cigarettes or my integrity. A hell of a trade for that brat’s life. I rang up his dad’s order and wondered which was worth more.
==========
AUTHOR BIO:
Scott is a newly retired metro bus driver from Kitsap, WA. who supports his wife of forty years in her career as a gardener as she supports his new career as a fiction writer. For the record, Scott did grow up on a citrus farm east of Mesa, Arizona, where a pack of wild dogs actually thrived for many years. And yes, his older brother’s name is Sean.
==========
WHY WE CHOSE TO PUBLISH “Wild Dogs and Citrus”:
We love publishing first-time authors, and this piece is author D. Scott Thayer’s first published story. With two well-drawn characters, it’s one of those rare stories that takes both the main character and reader by surprise. It left us laughing at the ending.
Good short stories like this one open with just enough detail and description to paint the setting and characters. A few lines later, the conflict is introduced and the story takes off from there, nicely paced, never losing the reader’s interest right up to its excellent, solid conclusion. It’s also an example of taking a setting familiar to you (as the author mentions in his bio) and folding a story around it.
This is great! Love it.
FUNNY!