The Big Bad

1.

It's funny how one action, one favor, one deviation from routine can completely change the trajectory of a persons life. A stone thrown into a pond causes ripples to the shoreline, it sets drifting leaves off coarse and defies the current. Sometimes for better, sometimes for worse.

I was five minutes over my break but still had half a cigarette to go. I watched the ember at the end glow orange as I took a drag, my eyes focusing back down to a studious trail of ants that was flowing into a crack beneath my shoe. I shifted my foot away, looking into the dark crevice that broke the pavement, shiny black bodies disappearing within.

The life of an ant; simple, relatively safe. Toiling away without a care for bills or insurance or estranged family putting on fake smiles for yearly video calls. Must be nice.

The metal door opened behind me.

"Kiri? Almost done? I gotta go get Kent from daycare." Sabrina's voice said as I took another buzzy hit and nodded. I heard the door slam shut again and stamped my cigarette out on the ground, tossing the butt into the dedicated bucket tucked against the wall.

Sabrina was not one to nag, but also not someone who's patience I wanted to test. I was fairly certain I was the only person in the liquor store, employee or customer, she hadn't chewed out at one point or another. I guess that meant we may have been friends, though we didn't hang out or have girls day brunch. Not that there was an influx of brunch places in Morton. Washington. There wasn't much of anything really.

I rubbed some hand sanitizer into my palms and fingers as I went back to my post behind the counter. Sabrina was shoving her red employee vest into a large handbag as I leaned beside the register.

"Can you cover for me tomorrow?" She asked, tossing a look over her shoulder as she grabbed her coat from the counter cubby. I couldn't keep my disappointment from my face and Sabrina rolled her eyes.

"I know, it's shitty to ask. But Kent's dad backed out again and my mom can't take any more time off." Sabrina explained. I sighed and nodded. I could use the hours anyway.

"Yeah, do I start at open or noon?" I asked.

"Noon. And it's a Sunday so we can close early." She said and then gave me a toothy grin. "Thanks! I'll owe you one."

"You owe me about three now," I quipped but she only snorted and nodded her head.

"You're right. At this rate maybe you can bank them and take a vacation."

"Goodie!" I said dryly and then returned Sabrina's smile. "It's no problem. Not like I have plans."

"Still on the rocks with Captain Underpants?" She asked, leaning a hip against the counter beside me. I looked skyward and shook my head.

"Not on the rocks, we're done. It seems impossible to drive that point home." I met her eye and smirked. "Captain Underpants is funny."

"Kicking him out in his underpants is funnier." Sabrina said. She checked her phone and straightened. "I gotta run. Seriously though, thank you."

"No problem," I said and gave her a parting smile as she bustled out the front doors. I watched her SUV drive off and then leaned down to rest my elbows on the counter top, propping my chin in my hand.

My eyes focused on the police cruiser parked across the road facing the liquor store and I let out a tired breath. Bryan, again. Ever since our break up I'd catch him parked there, windshield too dark and far away to see him but I knew he was watching me. Sabrina and the local gossips weren't the only ones who couldn't accept the break up. I turned away and did my best to ignore his presence.

The first hour of the closing shift was always slow, and I spent most of it reading a book on my tablet and snacking on a small packet of chips. Once five o clock rolled around the after-work crowd began to funnel in. I know most of the faces, it was hard not to in a town that small. There were the occasional campers grabbing last minute booze on their way into the national park, or some non-alcoholic locals popping in for special occasion beverages.

Todd, a paunchy old man who probably wouldn't notice if I withered away into a skeleton right in front of him, droned on for long enough that customers began jeering at him to move along. He was holding up the line.Such drama was the most excitement I usually got. And I let it roll off me, scanning the next bottle and smiling pleasantly to every weathered, familiar face.

There was one customer that always caught my attention though. Arthur Mason, his name only known to me from checking his ID. He was quiet, I could only recall a handful of times he spoke and couldn't remember what half were about.

Arthur was far from the only quiet customer who came through. But he had a different presense about him, I wasn't sure what. Whatever it was had my eyes dragging to him time and time again every time he came in. The frequency of his visits were another peculiar detail; a few consecutive days once a month. He would buy hundreds of dollars worth of bottles each of the three or so nights. He seemed to go for quantity over quality, buying more than enough to last the entire month when he'd disappear again.

My eyes tracked him that evening when he came in a while after the initial rush of customers. He loaded a red plastic basket with bottles of generic vodka we had on sale. I watched him, tuning out Susan Hastings rambling about the weather as she dug out her cash. His head was often lowered, as if to compensate for his well above average stature. He had a jaw of rough scruff, dark against his skin that was tanned from the sun. He often wore a plain ball cap, his dark hair curling out from the edges. He was completely unassuming and I was fully absorbed by him.

Arthur made his way up to the register, eyeing a display of beef jerky as he did. As his steps slowed, another customer stepped up to the register and I looked up, gut sinking at the face. Casey, an old dirtbag that had a scruffy mustache stained yellow from cigarettes, blue eyes that twinkled with delight everytime I cringed away from his leering or nasty flirtations.

I scanned Casey's bottle of Jack Daniel's, glancing over at Arthur who now stood in line with a bored look of indifference. His eyes flicked over and met mine, a shock of green before I looked away.

"That a new shirt?" Casey asked gruffly, eyes pointedly glued to my chest. I swallowed bile and gave a head shake.

"Nope." I replied, tapping my fingers along the countertop. Casey made a show of digging in his wallet for cash and he continued to ogle me.

"Showin off the goods as a free woman, eh?" He chuckled and handed over a twenty dollar bill.

"Nope." I grumbled again and began counting his change. Casey, inevitably disgruntled by my refusal to play, scoffed.

"Better act quick girl, you're gonna lose your goods," I looked up just as Casey made a crude gesture of grabbing imaginary tits on his chest. I dumped his change on the counter but said nothing. My mouth was dry with fury, and I couldn't exactly say what I wanted to without risking losing my job.

Casey started yapping angrily as his coins went rolling to the floor and he bent to retrieve them. I looked to Arthur again, my anger blazing, but he only watched Casey with a dull stare.

"What's your fucking problem?" Casey spat as he shoved his change into a back pocket and grabbed his whiskey.

"Have a great night!" I said, overly cheery as my heart hammered in my throat. Casey gave me a stink eye.

"Ugly bitch." He muttered and turned to leave. I watched him go, breathing rapidly against the flames of my anger. Arthur sat his basket on the counter and I snapped my attention back to him. Aloof as always, he merely began unloading the bottles without a word. I wrenched one from his hand a millisecond before it touched the counter, scanning it and reaching for the next. Arthur met my eye, something other than mute boredom blooming there. I was making a scene, I knew it, but my frustration made me feel out of control.

"That guy was a dick." Arthur said, surprising me. I grabbed another bottle and huffed. "Not many gentleman anymore."

"Yeah well, a gentleman would've said something." I snapped. Arthur's mouth curved ever so slightly but he shut up, standing quietly while I bagged his liquor in a rage.

I thrust his two bags full of bottles towards him when I was done. Arthur stood there, watching me for a second too long.

"What?" I spat, ricocheting my nails across the counter.

"You ain't ugly." He said and then grabbed his bags.

"I know." I said, my anger suddenly dampened by shocked embarrassment. Did he really think that's why I was upset? That an old fart like Casey Landry called me ugly? Men never ceased to amaze me.

"And you ain't much of a bitch." Arthur continued. "You should be more of one. Don't rely on assholes like me to defend you." He had a rolling, gruff way of talking that made me think of a cowboy. I eyed him, unimpressed.

"Yeah, well, I don't want to get fired." I told him flatly, cheeks flushing in shame. He was right, I knew that.

Arthur canted his head and shrugged.

"Sometimes it's worth it." He told me, and then he was turning away and leaving. I watched him go, mulling the words over. He was right- again. How annoying.

The rest of the night passed uneventfully, thankfully. My mood was foul, the interaction with Casey still sitting bitter and heavy in my gut. And the embarrassment from my snarky exchanging of words with Arthur made me wanna dig a hole and bury myself in it. I felt bratty, immature, frustrated that I knew better and still acted that way. Arthur was little more than a stranger and I expected him to come to the rescue? And yell at him when he didn't? I felt absurd.

Night had fallen when I finally turned off the neon 'open' sign and locked the doors. I ran the mop broom up and down the aisles, promising myself I'd do a better job when I closed the following day.

I left through the back door, hugging myself against an autumn chill. My breath puffed in small clouds as I walked.

Morton was quiet after dark, the only nightlife was a couple dive bars with smokers out front, bursts of chattering laughter filtering out every time the door opened.

I had to walk from one end of town to the other where my trailer home sat. I took the side streets instead of the highway edge that led straight there; I'd seen enough local names in the news after drunk drivers took out walkers.

My shivering ebbed as my blood started flowing with my walk, fighting off the mountain air. I wondered if we'd get snow early, it was only a week into October but I felt ice in my bones. My stomach churned at the thought of making that walk in a foot of snow; in the past Bryan would have driven me in. I was not about to ask for that favor anymore.

When I finally trudged up the road to my home, my stomach was grumbling and my body aching. My porch light came into view, buzzing with insects, and I sighed in relief. Instant ramen and a bed were calling to me- I didn't even want to think about the fact I'd be working the next day instead of enjoying my usual day off. I'd planned a trek down to the river to sketch some of the autumn colors, maybe I'd take out my bike even though the seat made my ass hurt. Not anymore.

It was cold inside my home but I flicked on the lights and heat as soon as I set my purse down. I grabbed a bowl of microwaveable noodles and shut them in to cook, traipsing to the back of the trailer towards my bedroom. Peeling off my jeans and exchanging them for sweats was a heavenly experience.

The microwave beeped and I retrieved my dinner, settling into the small living space beside the kitchen to eat and find something brain numbing on tv.

The loneliness got to me if I kept things too quiet, if I sat with my thoughts and solitude. I'd watch tv until my eyes drooped and then I'd listen to a podcast or audiobook until I fell asleep, a habit that felt only more necessary at night. And yet, it wasn't nearly as lonely as my time with Bryan. That fact alone kept me sane.

Often my mind would wander to my family; an estranged elderly dad in Florida, dead mom, and a half brother who was too old to see me more than a distant niece. Sabrina was the closest thing to a confidant I had and our friendship was confined the the three hours of overlap in our shifts at the liquor store.

It was hard not to feel pathetic.

When the clock above my kitchen sink crept past midnight I shuffled myself into bed, scrolling in a moment of silence for something to fill it. I could hear the subtle shifting of the walls around me, the wind in the trees outside, a car turning onto gravel. My own heart beat in my ears and I felt frantic to drown it out as I picked a podcast at random and plugged my phone in to charge.

As I lay there, staring up at the ceiling, the droning voice beside my ear did little to stem a flow of anxious thoughts. Replaying my sour interactions of the day I felt sick. I wanted someone to tell, someone to laugh about it with or share my indignation. Anything but my own surgical dissection of each word and facial expression. The way Arthur looked almost amused with my anger, the way I felt so guilty lashing out at him.

Despite every effort to not think, it was all I could do until sleep finally pulled me under.