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…”
