Mr. Hustle

The second hand diligently marched forward, continuing its sentry between twelve and six. Its progress was perceived as both sluggish and relentless - as the passing of time can be subjectively warped by separate parties. The glint of the chrome rim showed no reflection - although, again, that may have been a product of perception - neither observer had an advantageous angle on the clock that was mounted above the doorway of the classroom. 

Howard ran and hand through his auburn hair and pretended that the attention to his well-worn copy of Watership Down remained unwavering. He wasn’t sure how long he had been staring at the timepiece - but it had been enough to draw the unapologetic stare of Gale. 

“We could just go now.” Gale said calmly. His posture while sitting in the desk projected a confidence that remained just slightly shy of entitlement. 

“That’s not the point,” the English teacher replied, cautious not to surrender his attention. “You’re here until four.” 

“Why?” 

“Because if I let you leave early, the threat of discipline rings hollow.” 

Gale hadn’t stopped staring. Howard could feel it, and continued to focus just as intently at the text before him, though he didn’t know why. 

“But if you’re just keeping me here because you’re supposed to, doesn’t that mean that there’s not a whole lot to this ‘Detention’ thing?” 

They both listened to another patrol of the minute hand before Howard let out a put-upon sigh.

“Why, exactly, do you save your rhetoric when you are not supposed to be in this classroom, Gale?”

“What do you mean?” 

The haggard educator relented and raised his eyes to meet the pair of steely irises that affixed to him as soon as he had sat down some minutes earlier. His left hand flipped the front cover to close the book in an ornery fashion, causing a light clap against the oak of the desk. 

“We spend at least one day a week in here together, Gale. We do this because I have to maintain a certain level of respect for authority.”

“Okay.” 

“And in order to maintain that respect, I have to show that there are consequences for not treating me as an authority figure. And for reasons I have yet to divine, you seem to be devoted to forcing my hand in demonstrating those consequences.” 

“Okay.” 

Another half-patrol. 

“Gale. It’s not hard to participate in a classroom discussion.”

The sophomore crossed his arms, a sign of defensive behavior that Howard could not yet judge as a step in the right direction. That hope sunk when the corner of his mouth slightly turned upward in a sneer of defiance.

“I never said it was hard.”

The five fingers of Howard’s right hand gripped the edge of his desk - the knuckles below lightly jaundiced fingernails turning white in silent rage. He thought of a study he had once read regarding the ability of humans with a severed corpus callosum to function with a split brain. As far as he was aware, the nervous tissue between each hemisphere remained intact, but his balancing act between the thin veneer of malaise and the cancerous growth of frustration had facilitated the illusion of a comparable ability. After he forced out a slow, emphatic breath from his nostrils, his grip relaxed. 

“Your behavior seems to suggest the contrary.”

Gale’s eyes casually shifted to the clock, then came full circle to return to meet Howard’s. 

“I just think we’re wasting our time.” 

His assertion was met with a sardonic laugh, choked out of an esophagus that had produced many. 

“Well, at least we’re on the same page there.”

“I don’t mean here. I mean in class.” 

The teacher rose, calmly followed the perimeter of weathered oak edges, and crossed to the rank-and-file rows of smaller desks. The common observer would mistake the choice as an exercise in intimidation - however, both knew that such a tactic would fail to hold any relevance in what had become a tradition. 

“I’m sorry you don’t find my lesson plan interesting. But to suggest that I’m robbing the class of it’s time…that’s hard to take as anything but a personal affront.” 

He punctuated his reply with a swift, harsh turn of the desk that sat in front of the one Gale currently occupied. He sat down, opposite of the student. 

“Our time. Not the class’ time.”

Howards eyes narrowed, betraying his surprise. He waited for the inevitable follow up.

“I spend my time concentrating on where I want to go and you spend yours trying to figure out how you never got there.” 

Another half-patrol.

“Get the fuck out of my classroom.” 

So I wrote another one of these for no reason: 

Beth dropped her gathered DVD cases on the counter. The titles - A Nightmare on Elm Street, Halloween, and Sleepy Hollow - were thrust in Darcy’s line of vision, a not-so-subtle reminder that she was, in fact, at work.  Beth twirled a lock of her auburn hair as she craned her neck over her shoulder, coyly stealing a look at Peter, who was pawing through the ‘Foreign’ section.

“Which one of these is not like the others…” Darcy deadpanned in what was an intentionally lackluster singsong. It complimented her posture - legs tucked indian-style in an unfortunately dilapidated swivel chair - quite well.

“What?” Beth snapped out of her concocted wistfulness, perfected through a history of flirting that dated as far back as 7th grade, uncharacteristically lacking grace. 

“The movies.” 

“Yeah. I’m getting movies. It’s a movie store.” 

Darcy suppressed the tiny voice in her head that said she could be doing much better things with her time. “Well, technically it’s a multimedia rental distribution center, but at this point it’s just semantics.” 

To say the sarcasm didn’t jibe with Beth would be an understatement. “I’m sorry,” she began, not sounding the least bit sorry. It occurred to her that she once read in Cosmo that an effective method to deal with salespeople was to call them by name. So before continuing, she paused, leaned in, and attempted to read the nametag that adorned this mordant blonde. “Darcy,” the synapses in her brain processed during an embarrassingly long span, given its owner had purposefully fastened the tag upside-down. 

“…I’m sorry, DARCY, but shouldn’t I like, pay now?”  

“Oh, of course. But usually we do a pre-rental consultation before currency changes hands.” 

Beth’s posture slacked to its calculated combination of carelessness and curves as she took the bait. Perhaps she was a deserving match for the gentleman that nearly had an aneurysm attempting to pronounce the title of  “Le Père de Mes Enfants” just five minutes earlier. 

“Oh.” It was strange, but Beth was willing to see if this would lead to some sort of free promotional deal. 

“As I was saying, you almost had a theme going,” Darcy said as she pulled herself up to the opposite side of the counter. Her legs stayed tucked, feet fitting under the frayed armrests that served as the cradle for what must have been years of occupational malaise, but she was close enough to push the DVD cases into what was actually a very well-presented fan formation. 

“Yeah. Scary movies. I think Sleepy Hollow is scary.” 

“Well, yes, but I was thinking Johnny Depp in scary movies.”

“Johnny Depp is in Sleepy Hollow.” Beth’s hopes for an offer of some exclusive customer loyalty program were nosediving.

“Yes. And he’s in Nightmare on Elm Street.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Yes. Yes he is.”

“I don’t see him on the cover.”

“Because he wasn’t famous then.”

 The statuesque 2007 Harvest Fair Queen Runner-Up didn’t take kindly to her expertise being challenged. After all, she had seen a LOT of Johnny Depp movies. Frumplestiltskin - it was like she wasn’t even trying to be pretty today - across the counter had no right to intimate some sort of void in what she considered to be an above-average intimacy with Depp’s career.

“If Johnny Depp was in this movie,” she said, ramming her index finger into the cover, “who did he play?”

“He was the boyfriend. His bed eats him.” 

Peter sauntered over, jerking his head to let gravity re-position the cascade of bangs that fell over his brow. “Hey lady,” he said in an affectionate cadence as he slung his arm over Beth, “this German movie’s got boobs on the back cover.”

Beth ignored the found areola, locked in to the debate she backed into. 

“Uh - maybe I’m wrong - but Freddy Kreuger is the bad guy in this movie. Not some bed.” 

Darcy rolled her eyes. “Bed, Fred - same difference. Three quarters of the way through the movie teenaged Captain Jack Sparrow is expelled in a geyser of gore and down.” 

“Woah. Spoilers. NOT cool.” Peter threw up his hands, and pointedly inserted a finger in each ear canal as he backed away from the counter. Back to Foreign films, where Darcy would have to return the artifact of incidental nudity later that evening. 

“Great.” Beth said with exasperation, clapping her hands flat on the counter. “Now we can’t rent that.” 

Darcy made a quick assessment that she wouldn’t get much more out of this interaction. Time to wrap things up.

“Listen,” she said in a hushed tone as she leaned closer to Beth. It had the desired affect, as Beth leaned in as well. Fuck the loyalty card, she thought as the concept of free-rentals-as-punitive-damages occurred to her. 

“You’re picking scary movies because you want to fuck this guy, right?”

Beth’s eyes widened at the gall. She turned checked to see if her beau had overheard before returning eye contact.

“Girl to girl,” Darcy continued. “I know what you’re looking to do. It’s a lot easier to get close when you have an excuse to cling to a guy during a movie. Scary movies have been an aphrodisiac for years.”

“Fine. Whatever. Yes.” 

“Well, you’re picking the wrong stuff. Everybody knows these scary movies. The unknown is a great catalyst for fear. And fear, in your case, is a mechanism for justified physical contact.”

Beth considered her reasoning for the moment. She concluded that she should hear this girl out, as she used many words that she did not know the definition of. 

“Okay…so…some hipster scary movie that one of your grody friends filmed in his basement?”

Darcy feigned jocularity, chuckling at what, on the Beth scale, was a formidable jab. She could be a good salesman when she wanted to. 

“Hah, no. Not at all. These movies are totally mainstream.” 

The petite video store employee sprang from her chair with enviable dexterity. Within a few moments she was back with three more DVDs.

“Nine dollars.” 

“These are scary?” Beth said with slight skepticism as she examined the cases.

“Oh my, yes.” 

“Come on, babe. Let’s go,” Beth called to Peter, who at this point had resorted to constructing the foundation for a miniature high-rise using the filmography of Lars von Trier. After she handed over the payment - one five, four one dollar bills - she slid the boxes into her purse. It was almost as if the titles were winking back at Darcy as they each disappeared into the handbag. Leaving Las Vegas, Boys Don’t Cry, and A Clockwork Orange. 

Hope all those rape scenes don’t get in the way of a romantic evening, Darcy thought with a smirk. 

I wrote this back in July. I think the plan was to have some sort of short story blog. This was not a strong start. It doesn’t really have a place, and I really haven’t posted in a while, so I figured what the hell. 

I’m not going to post it to twitter because I don’t want to be that “HEY LOOK WHAT I DID” guy. Not for this. So if you’re reading this, you’re probably overly interested in me. 

GET YOURSELF CHECKED, CREEPER. 

Henry Dort had his speech memorized. He ran his hand through his wet hair, further exposing his scalp to the hot water rushing out of the shower head. He tweaked and finessed the phrasing of his retorts as he inspected the thin layer of grime that had accumulated near the drain. 

I never get to that. He thought to himself. It’s so disgusting because every time I’m reminded to clean the shower, it’s just before I’m about to bathe. 

He shook his head, banishing the idea from his consciousness. More pressing issues were at hand. 

“I was simply acting in my best interest,” Josh said. At least Josh was going to say that - Henry was sure of it. “Your best interest? And since when has your interest been of any import?” he visualized himself snapping back. The curt chuckle - a single expulsion of air from his mouth and nostrils - was accompanied only by the sound of Henry snatching up a now soaked washcloth. It loudly clapped against his cheek. 

His adversary would draw back slightly in surprise; only slightly, as Josh would likely have the fortitude to conceal the full impact of such a well-placed verbal barb. Henry Dort had no qualms harboring hatred for men, but underestimating them was an intolerable practice. 

Josh Pickens was rarely underestimated. A defined profile, complete with a strong chin and barrel chest projected a confidence that paled in comparison to his internal fortitude. Josh Pickens didn’t take ‘No’ for an answer. Sometimes, Josh Pickens didn’t even wait for an answer. 

The washcloth began to feel rough against the bridge of his nose. Henry wasn’t conscious of how long he had been picturing the rhetorical dismantling, but he knew it was long enough to exfoliate in excess. Still, he continued to let the scene play out in his mind as he returned the washcloth to it’s resting place. 

Lesser men would be tempted to take a small victory and retreat with a sliver of stolen dignity. Henry, however, considered himself plagued by being misconceived as a lesser man. He was determined to change that conception, and he was determined to start today. 

Imagine what people will say, he marveled while turning off the water. This won’t just change your life, it’s going to completely turn the social order upside down.

Henry walked naked, proudly naked, from the bathroom to his closet. The visualization he had played over and over again in his mind was nearly complete - he had Josh on the ropes, completely speechless. He stood vacantly over his open underwear drawer, seemingly hypnotized by the patterns. 

His small hand - small for a man of his stature, but not freakishly so - hovered over the selection. For the first time in his routine today, there was a moment of hesitation. What to wear.

There were two schools of thought on the matter. Henry could select a favored pair of boxer shorts, something festive and well worn, a garment of comfort to provide a superficial layer of self-assurance. Or he could waive comfort, choose a rarely worn boxer brief, formalizing the occasion. After a reflective pause, he shut the door abruptly. If today were the day he would indeed do something so unpredictable as challenge the authority of Josh Pickens, he need not conform to the social construct of underwear being a necessity. 

The morning commute set the stage for the last internal rehearsal. His foot slowly pressed on the accelerator as he imagined locking eyes with his adversary. The metronome click of his turn signal served as the score for a flurry of invective that Henry was sure would rain down upon Josh like hellfire. 

As he pulled into the parking spot, finally, he saw the shattered psyche of a man woefully unprepared for such a verbal assault. This would be the manifestation of justice.

It was nearly reality. 

Henry’s pace quickened as he neared the door. He counted the strides as a mental pallet cleanser; there was no more need for rehearsal, visualization, or personal reaffirmation. He glided through the threshold of the store as if destiny propelled him. 

He stopped suddenly. Josh was nowhere in sight. He slowly scanned the entire sales floor - rows and rows of shoes, promotional materials, and various accessory racks. There was no one, except for Bill Sorenson. 

“Where’s Josh?” blurted Henry, choking on his surprise. “I checked the schedule and it said he was working today.”

Bill, a retiree with more wrinkles than sense, amicably replied. “Traded his shift!”

He crossed over to the stunned Henry, seemingly incapable of reading human emotion.

“I was happy to take it off his hands, you know, what with the dog days of summer and all. When you get up in years, you tend to have a harder time busying yourself, and I said to myself, Bill- Bill, you know…”

Dejected, Henry walked to the counter and picked up the price gun. His mind tuned out Bill and began the rehearsal once more. 

“Telling the manager we closed up shop a half hour early is one thing,” he saw himself begin, “leaving an anonymous tip in the form of a post-it note is another…”