Saturday Morning Re-Run

Saturday Morning Re-Run

Holy Crap, I've been running this inane little corner of the interweb for a long time.

Here's something I wrote this very weekend, four years ago. Any resemblance to my former roommate Bill is purely coincidental.

The Store

"What are you doing?" asks the man behind the counter.

"What do you think I'm doing?" asks Bill in return.

"I don't know what you're doing...why do you have your pants off?"

"Because it's hot in here."

The clerk can't seem to decide whether to come out from behind the counter or stay back there. He waffles back and forth between the two options until Bill bends over to pick up his pants, not to put them back on but to fold them across his right arm. It is then that the clerk opts for the counter, and the phone.

"It's not that hot in here," the clerk says, picking up the handset. "Put your pants on, or I'm calling the cops."

"The cops?"

"The police. Put your damn pants on."

Another customer wanders into the Mr. Buzz Convenience Store. She is a younger lady: a redhead. She is probably a student at the small college a couple of blocks away. She freezes, as she has just heard the clerk order Bill (our hero) to put his damn pants on. She looks uncertainly left, at Bill, who has put one leg up onto a display of Pepsi 12-packs, then right, at the clerk, who now seems torn between his duty to the customer and his need for the customers to keep their pants on.

The clerk's eyes dart from the new customer, to Bill, and back to the customer.

"Can I...um. Can I help you?" he asks, keeping an eye on Bill, who seems to be studying the ceiling now.

"No, I'm fine," Bill says.

"I wasn't talking to you!" he says, a vein popping out on his forehead. He looks, wide-eyed, at the girl.

She doesn't move from the doorway. "A pack of Marlboro lights?" She asks. She is a little thrown by the situation. She has decided Bill is the center of attention, as well.

The clerk reaches up without looking and pulls down the pack of cigarettes.

"$3.20," he says.

Bill--to her the man with no pants--has left his post at the Pepsi 12-packs. He is wandering toward the back of the store, towards the beer coolers. He absently lays his folded pants on top of the shelf containing horrendously overpriced housewares.

"Hey! Come back here!"

"I'm not going anywhere, chief," says Bill over his shoulder. When he reaches the coolers, he opens up the refrigerator door. Cooler air wafts out toward him in icy clouds.

The girl lays four dollars on the counter.

"Hey!" the clerk yells. "Hey! What are you doing back there?"

"I told you it's hot in here," Bill says, his tone edging toward irritation. "I've explained it all to you."

"Get out of my cooler!"

"Get out of your what?" Bill has his head wedged between the shelf holding 6-packs of Bud and the shelf holding 6-packs of Bud Light.

"I said 'Get out of the cooler!'"

"I'm not in the cooler," Bill replies, as if that were patently obvious. "Only my head."

"I'm sorry," the girl says, brushing her red hair out of her eyes, "can I have my cigarettes?"

"Sorry," the clerk says. He pushes the pack across the counter.

"Keep the change," she says, rolling her eyes at the whole situation.

"I'm calling the cops!" The bell on the door clangs as the redhead leaves.

"Calling who?"

"The police. You're acting crazy!"

"What am I doing?"

"Get out of my cooler, put your pants on and get out of my store!" He's yelling now.

Bill considers the request. He closes the cooler door, but makes no move to leave.

"Are you leaving?"

"I haven't gotten what I came for." Bill looks disgusted with the whole situation.

The clerk sighs. "What did you come for?"

"The pleasant atmosphere."

The End.

The events in this story are fictional, and any resemblance of characters or events to actual people or events is purely coincidental, Bill.