Matt Cowper - The Clerk

Frank Copeland very much wanted to fight this impertinent swine, but he was scared of a drubbing. Though he preferred laziness, Rock was still prodigiously strong; if Frank tried to fight him, Rock would likely become un-lazy in a hurry.

So he let Rock leave, and then sat in his office the rest of the day sipping from the Jack Daniels bottle he kept in a desk drawer for times such as these.

Rock, who was as gregarious and forgiving as a dog, had long ago erased any enmity for Frank Copeland from his heart. He still thought Frank was a stuck-up peckerhead, but that was just telling it like it was. Frank, however, had never forgotten Rock’s slight. Yes, he’d dealt with disgruntled employees on many occasions, but none had had the temerity to bring up his dark family history. Even now, all these years later, he still felt the need to drive up to North Carolina, find Rock Lewis, and tell him exactly where he could get off.

“He’s fine, Rock,” Thomas replied. “He keeps himself busy.”

“I believe it. Stuck-up peckerhead or not, he was a go-getter. Why, he’d be at the store before anyone else’d get there, and then he’d be there after we all left.”

“I remember.”

“Course ya do! What am I saying? You know he was — and is, I reckon — tough as shoe leather.”

“He’s one of a kind.”

“Sure is. Now you’ve got me remembering — ah, I’ll leave you to it. You’ve listened to this old codger rant enough. I’m-a go grab some Beanie Weenies and head out. Purdy day out there. Might go out on the beach and just set there awhile. Take care, Thomas.”

“You too, Rock.”

Rock ambled away, humming to himself. Thomas resumed stocking, shaking his head at the crazy old coot, and thinking about his father. No, you couldn’t find two people who were as different as those two were. He wondered why on earth his father had even hired Rock. He’d surely known of his reputation. When asked about it, Frank would just say “I don’t want to talk about that man,” which left Thomas to toss out various conjectures. Perhaps he’d owed someone a favor, though Frank Copeland hated owing anyone anything. Or, like Vernon, he may have decided to give Rock a chance to see if he was finally ready to make something of himself. Frank Copeland did give people chances from time to time, but unlike Vernon, he didn’t have the temperament to put up with poor workers. His altruism would soon turn to icy rage, and the person would be quickly fired.

A few minutes later, Thomas heard Rock up front, blaring at someone again. After a moment, he reappeared at the end of the aisle, a plastic bag in hand, likely filled with Beanie Weenies, and whistled to get Thomas’s attention.

“Says her name means golden dawn!” Rock yelled.

“Huh,” Thomas said. “That’s interesting.”

“It’s interesting in that it don’t fit. She’s about as golden as a fish’s belly, and she ain’t no dawn, not that I can see. She’s cool as a cucumber.”

“Yeah, she’s pretty quiet.”

“Orianna — huh. Names are funny, ya know. I’m called Rock, but my momma and daddy named me William. I like Rock, it sounds real. William is the name of that dumbass prince over in Merrie Olde England. And there’s you, with Thomas. Not Tom or Tommy. Thomas.”

“That’s just what I prefer, Rock.”

“I know. It fits you. Makes you sound like the upright man you are. Alright, enough jibber-jabbering! I’m gone!”

“Later, William ,” Thomas replied, grinning. “Enjoy yourself out there.”

“Always do, Tommy , always do!”

Later in the afternoon, Thomas moved to the beer aisle and starting fronting Heinekens and Mike’s Hard Lemonades. For such a small store, Oxendine’s had a good selection of beer. Of course there were the old standards made by Anheuser-Busch and Miller, but the microbreweries were also well represented: six-packs from the Weeping Radish brewery up the coast, bottles from Highland Brewing Company all the way from the mountains. There were some strange varieties, beers that involved blueberries and pretzels, which bamboozled Thomas. It was too much flavor for him; he liked the simple taste of a Bud Light.

He worked his way through the coolers, moving towards the front of the store. He wanted to talk to Orianna before he left for the day. She was fairly new to Oxendine’s, and he wanted to get to know her better.

Ori was quiet and self-contained, confident in an unobtrusive way. She was rail-thin, with smooth ivory skin and short ash-blonde hair. She usually wore a bandanna as headgear, and her right arm from elbow to shoulder was covered in tattoos. Based on appearance, it would be easy to classify her as a hippie, an “alternative” girl, or whatever terms were currently en vogue, except she claimed not to use drugs and quietly ridiculed “those counter-culture people who think they’ve got life all figured out.”

The phrases she used (“We have a tyranny of the minority more than a tyranny of the majority”) and the statistics she delivered (“The United States has 4 percent of the world’s population, but we hold 22 percent of the world’s prisoners”) showed a certain intelligence, an intelligence unsullied by higher education. Some of the college graduates who worked or had worked at Oxendine’s (Eddie being the prime example) were dumb as posts. Orianna, Thomas suspected, would run circles around her peers if she ever made it to a university — that is, if the cretin professors didn’t try to harness her.

He wanted to ask Orianna about Cynthia’s “issues,” mainly as a stepping stone to a more personal conversation. She was the closest thing Cynthia had to a confidant at the store (mainly, Thomas believed, because they were close in age, since their personalities differed quite sharply), so it made sense to try out this strategy. However, he didn’t want to get himself dragged into a pity party. If Cynthia really needed help or a shoulder to cry on, she should get it — just not from him. He’d have to tread carefully, and not give Orianna reason to believe he was willing to be Cynthia’s psychiatrist.

He was at the last cooler. He slid a few six-packs to the front and then poked his head around the corner. No one was checking out at the moment. Ori was standing by her register, arms crossed, looking out into the parking lot. He walked over, hands in pockets.

“Hey, Ori,” he said. “Got a moment?”

She turned towards him, arms still crossed. As always, he was struck by the large tattoo on her arm. A flame-spewing dragon curled through three large, blue orchids (Ori said they symbolized rarity), and a foaming wave, similar in style to the ancient print The Great Wave off Kanagawa , caressed her bicep. Several words in several languages spoke from her flesh. Thomas only knew the English one: “Verity.” He’d never asked about the others.

Her bandanna today was white with stylized blue flames racing across the fabric. Even though its kinetic design didn’t mesh with her still demeanor, Thomas still thought it looked attractive. There was something about a bandanna that made a woman look spunky and earthy.

“Yeah,” she replied softly, and a bit warily, in Thomas’s opinion. “What’s up?”

“I had an… interesting conversation with Cynthia earlier. She seems a little out of sorts. Know what’s going on with her?”

Ori nodded. “I know a bit. I know she’s under a lot of pressure. Her parents are acting despotic, and her roommates seem to have switched to retard-partier mode.”

“Hunh. I thought she liked her roomies — thought they were nice and quiet.”

“They were, but then they became involved with guys who weren’t nice and quiet.”

“I see. Thank god I live alone.”