Chapter 2: Attack Of The Slightly Chunky Roommate

One nice thing being the assistant manager rather than say a lowly peon (or shutter, a shit-on) is that no one cares if you are five minutes late, provided, of course, the peon peons haven’t sold everything to their friends at half price within that time. Not that I had to worry about that, because what height school cape would admit to working at a bookstore and what college kid would waste perfectly good beer money on even a half-priced to book. Grad students and other book addicts need not reply.

Heck, one can be up to six minutes late without even Stumpy the wonder nerd noticing. Not that it matters because all he could do is whine to the exact same manager who shares my extremely low opinion of the pimply-faced pain in the ass (it is only a rumour that the guy I replaced was fired for hiring his annoying hind end, but he wasn’t a happy camper so I think that he hired Stumpy as revenge). Even if I was spared the pitiful complaints of my least favorite employee and most of the store was still standing, I was still disappointed in myself for running late. Not so disappointed that I couldn’t enjoy the secret pleasure that I felt for the reason that I had for being late.

So I went into the store humming to myself, as I checked the state of confusion. Stumpy stood at a register with a matronly looking woman and a soccer mom.

Teresa and Julio, two college students, were busily pretending to stock and straighten the latest legal thriller by MichaelD. A note at the timeclock announced that Keisha was running late, again, her bus having hit a landmine or some such thing.

Another day at everyone’s favorite mall bookstore.

Yippee.

I went back out to the store, thinking about my encounter. I was still in the hopeful stage as opposed to the confused, doubting phase that I was not looking forward to later in the evening. Before I would leave work, I would have convinced myself that 1) nothing had happened, 2) she didn’t exist, 3) that the only reason she had wanted my number was so that non-existent person could sue me for what hadn’t happened, and 4) the number in my pocket was from Eighties rock song.

Keep in mind that that was only where I was going to be when the bars came down on Mr. Slot’s; that at this moment I was still in the state of mind where I wanted to start dancing and chanting, “I got a date! I got a date!” Oh yes, and maybe a “nah nah nah nah!” Or two for Stumpy. In my imagination, I had even advanced to the third date. No, not the third date but after the third date.

I made omelets for breakfast.

And this was before anyone had asked anyone else out. Such are the highs and lows of the male ego.

Anyway back at the bookstore, I went on thinking my pleasant thoughts and went towards the registers to find out what Stumpy’s latest grievance against his co-workers was. Passing Teresa and Julio I chanced to overhear them talking as they “worked.”

“I tell you, she’s hot.”

“Hey,” replied Julio, “she’s old. Had kids, too, so she’s probably all stretched out.”

Teresa let out an exacerbated sigh. “You guys, you can only think about what you’re sticking your meat in next. Look at her, she’s in her mid-thirties at most and she still has a body I wish I could have.”

“Hi, gang,” I interrupted. I gestured with my head to the counter. “Talking about the soccer mom?”

“Yeah, man,” said Julio. “Teresa seems to have a thing about her.”

“Julio, you’re as bad as my husband.”

I glanced at the counter and said, “I’ve got to agree with Teresa. She’s nice to look at. Besides,” I paused for effect, “if you know one thing about single moms, you know that they do put out.”

“And they may be disgusted enough with men to give the other side of the field a try,” added Teresa with a huge grin. Julio groaned and walked away to not work someplace else. Teresa began to straighten books for real.

“So, how has the day been?”

“Aren’t you going to check with Stumpy?”

I shook my head, “I’d rather know the truth before I talk with ole doom and gloom. Last week, I had thought half of the back stock magazines had caught fire when it had turned out that Sherry had only been smoking back there.”

“Well, nothing exciting happened other than Stumpy going to the bathroom for fifteen minutes with a copy of costume Cosmo, again.”

“And to think that Julio thinks he’s gay.”

Teresa winked at me. “Julio’s never seen the bra ads.”

Forty-five minutes later (my five minutes late plus his ten minutes early), Julio left. Teresa left on time, and left me with Stumpy to divide the store between us.

He got the peak stuff (computers, sci-fi, and fantasy) and I ended up with the rest of the store. We, thus, settled into the routine of the week day night at the mall: growling at each other at the edges of our territories, ogling the jailbait walking by the store, and waiting on the occasional customer.

I will take this moment to state that there are two kinds of people: those who know the next statement to be true and those who think that it is just a load of shit.