Long Story For The New Bride
Yellow Mama 2014
October 15, 2014
“Here we are out of money, low on gas down to our last few packages of Little Debbie’s and now the radio gives out. Pull into the next gas station or convenience store we see and I’ll change our luck and theirs.”
“Fill the tank with high test and I’ll go take care of the rest,” I tell my wife, actually my new bride since we’re officially on our honeymoon.
I grab a hand basket and load up on Cokes and Dr. Peppers, Little Debbie’s, premade sandwiches and when I fill the basket I put it on the counter and tell the pimply faced clerk, “Give me a carton of Kools and one of Chesterfields,” and then I begin loading the other basket with pretzels, prepackaged bologna and ham, hamburger rolls, mustard, and anything else that catches my eye.
I walk back to the counter holding this basket with two hands and say, “Bag these for me, Buddy.”
“I’ve got to ring em up first,” he says.
“No. You don’t have to do that,” I tell him.
Licking his nervous lips he asks why not and I tell him that I have no money and since I don’t want to hurt him or anyone else he should just be a good boy and do as I tell him. I reach behind my back, under my coat and pull out a pistol.
Without hesitation pimply face takes a basket, walks around the counter and goes and puts everything back and comes for the second basket.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I ask.
“Putting away your dreams,” he says. “We sell stuff here—we don’t give nothing away.”
“Don’t you see this gun?” I ask waving it in front of him.
“Sure do but I know you have no plans for using it and by the way I turned off the pump before it hit six dollars so you owe me six dollars worth of labor in return. Grab the mop and bucket and take the key to the bathrooms and clean them. If you do a good job we’ll call it even for the gas. If you don’t then we take other measures.” He points to a closed circuit TV on the wall where there’s a man sitting with a shotgun looking down at them both, “Other measures like meeting my father.”
“What took you so long?” my bride asked. “Where’s the food?”
“Long story,” I say. “Long story.”