Already Off-Script
The inside of the 7–11 glittered like diamonds in a jewelry store counter. Flickering fluorescent lamps shone down over racks of Doritos and Fun-ions. From my position in the getaway car I carefully scanned down the aisles, looking for bobbing heads that would signal other witnesses. Only a bored cashier scrolling his phone and waiting for their shift to end. I could handle him with no problem.
I inhaled the scent of the thousand lemon grass scented air fresheners stacked on my rear view mirror. Not my favorite flavor, but having them around beat smelling like a skunk who lived in a forest. I stepped out of the car and zipped my Invader Zim hoodie up a little higher. The hood came down low over my eyes, brushing the top of the yellow Scooby-Doo sunglasses I wore despite the darkening sunset. The front pouch of my hoodie swings heavily into my stomach with each step. The script was easy enough to memorize, only a few lines, but I couldn’t seem to keep the words in place. Should I say hi first? Just be calm and breathe.
The door chimed as I walked into the convenience store. The cashier didn’t look up from his half-wall of scratch-off tickets and scented cigarillos. A trance song, too muffled to be recognizable, oozes from a closed door marked employees only. My shoes squelch against the dirty flooring. I raise one shoe, and then the other, looking for the piece of gum I must have stepped in. Both of my Vans are clean. Well, clean-ish. A few rocks have tucked themselves into the treads, and there are streaks of dirt hidden on the side panels of the shoe if you look closely. It’s been a while since I’ve gone over it with a toothbrush —
“Can I help you?” the cashier asks.
Panic floods my veins as I snap back upright from inspecting my shoes. The cashier is leaning across the counter to get a better angle, his eyes boring into mine with a curiosity that borders on stalker. A yellow gold chain dangles around his chicken neck like a strand of linguine carbonara.
“Nope. I’m good. Doing good. How are you doing?” I stumble over my words despite my practice earlier. “Doritos are back here?” One of my hands sneaks inside the hoodie pocket to feel the cold metal within. This is already off script.
“Aisle 2,” he says, jerking his head towards the middle of the store. “In the snack aisle. With the other snacks.”
The 7–11 is longer than it is wide with only two aisles in the whole thing. A glaring sign stretches across the ceiling. A blue arrow pointing down and to the left for drinks, and a red arrow pointing down and to the right for snacks. That explains why the clerk watches me as I catalog my way down the snack aisles. My hands search by instinct for the my all time favorite Alice in Pepperlands Mango and Habanero chips while my mind searches even harder for a way out.
The cashier must know, right? I sneak a glance as he scrolls idly through an iPhone with one hand. My chest tightened when I caught his eyes focused on me instead of the screen. He knows, a quiet voice in the back of my head starts to say. He knows. Everyone knows why you’re here. This was a stupid plan.
I grab a bag of kettle corn and pretend to read the nutrition label to buy myself time. The thought of walking out empty handed, the cold drive back home in my ’97 Accord with the windows that wouldn’t quite roll up to the top, froze the nervous ball inside of me into ice. I didn’t make that drive down here for nothing. Well, I hadn’t made the drive of course; every one knew a secret mission needed a responsible wheel man.
The door chime sounded like battle stations. My heart dropped as I saw who walked in. Derrick looked the same as he had in high school. Chiseled jaw, broad shoulders, and a head of hair thick enough to qualify for a role as Rapunzel in a local community theatre. In high school I’d been on the receiving end of plenty of his beatings. Derrick wasn’t the only one, my high school had too good of a football team for that, but he definitely enjoyed it the most. He gave a friendly wave to the clerk, but stopped short when he caught sight of me.
“Peter?” Derrick asked across the store. “Peter Frampton?”
I ducked a little lower behind the sign for Lay’s Potato chips and read down the ingredients list for my kettle corn like it was going to be on the final exam. Sugar. Corn. Corn Syrup. Why even bother listing these?
“Peter!” Derrick’s face poked around the corner. “I thought I saw you over here,”
“Hi,” I said. I’d never been good at hide and seek. “Just picking up some snacks,”
“I can see that. You haven’t changed at all in the past five years. Still working at Tech-City?”
My gums scraped like sandpaper over the inside of my mouth. It felt all the moisture has been wrung out and injected into my palms instead. Warning klaxxons drowned out the thoughts in my head. This was definitely not on script. “Yep. Life’s going good. Real good. Better than good actually, thats how good I’ve been doing,” I squeezed the bag of kettle corn in my hands tight enough to feel the kernels push back with the pressure. At any moment I expected the bag to pop open and shower us in sugar and corn cannonballs. “How have you been?”
“Just great, brother. My wife and I are expecting our third bundle of joy. You remember Kelly from high school?”
Hazy memories of a class field trip surfaced. The three of us sat in opposite rows on the bus and hadn’t said a word the entire ride. Brunette? Maybe? “Sure. Yeah. Happy for you,” My feet tap a staccato beat against the dirty flooring, each tap followed by a squelch. “We’ll I better get — “ I start, but he spoke over me faster than a vegan cross-fitter.
“We met at a church function right graduation. She was helping run a program for troubled youths and, well, I was a troubled youth,” he added with an easy laugh. “She’s my little angel on earth,”
My eyes rolled so hard I could feel the rotation of the earth shift against them. Thank God the sunglasses weren’t see through. Trust Shaggy and crew to get that right. The urge to leave became overpowering. “Awesome. Awesome. Good to see you, man. Take it easy,”
“Hey, you ever think about coming to a service? I can get you a seat near the front with us!”
“God bless!” I called out over my shoulder as I darted around the end cap of diet soda towards the front of the store.
I throw the bag of corn at the cashier in the hopes of warding off any further small talk. He batted it to the counter without taking his eyes off of mine. I can feel them squirming against my glasses in an attempt to look inside and see me. “Find everything okay?” he said as he scanned the bag of chips.
Sweat dripped down my forehead as the water in my palms diverted course. My lips stuck together like they’ve been welded together with sticky-tacky. A fantasy of drowning in an olympic size swimming pool possessed my thoughts with troubling urgency. Behind a rack of lotto scratch-off, a counter-top refrigerator holds glisteningly cold glass bottles of Nesquik. I grab one, downing half of it before my throat collects enough moisture to form words. “Good,” I manage to croak out.
The cashier looks down at the pocket of my hoodie, and then back up at my face. “And thats for…” his voice trails off.
I look down at my own pocket. A hard corner of metal bulges out through the thin material. The shape seems familiar. If I didn’t know better, I’d almost think it looked like a concealed weapon. “Jesus,” I yelp in surprise. My metal wallet comes out of the pocket and I hurriedly show the clerk. Two singles dangle from the money clip tucked behind fourteen over-drafted credit cards and an insurance card from two jobs ago. “Sorry. Sorry! Been a long day. I just really want my kettle corn,”
“You’re cool, man. Don’t freak,” He laughs, his voice deep and raspy like a thousand dogs barking in unison. “You think you’re the first stoned out idiot to come through my store? You represent half of my target demographic,”
I hand him one of my last working credit cards and he taps a few buttons on the register. “At least you tried to stick to your script,” he says as he hands me my receipt. “Half of you just get up here and drool while pointing at things,”
“Thanks,” I mumbled under my breath.
My feet squelched against the floor as I head back out to the getaway car. My mom promised she’d stop by McDonald’s for dinner on the way home.
Already Off-Script was originally published in Sixty Minute Stories on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.