Shoes
What follows is a story which was generated from the sound of a woman's shoes as she walked across the floor. Besides the sound, it is also limited in the following respect -- there's a contest I may enter it in. The requirements are that the story be no more than 1,500 words and begin with the phrase "The clerk looked at me ..." I'm not entirely thrilled with the story. There's something about the flow that bothers me. And I'm not sure about the ending either.
SHOES
The clerk looked at me, quizzically, “Is there anything else, sir?” I didn’t hear him, I was too busy listening to something else. A sound had distracted me and took me back to a piece of my past. It’s odd how sights, sounds, and aromas can hit you and bring back a memory.
The first such incident of the day had happened when I walked into the convenience store and made my way to the cooler in the back. It had been a rough few weeks and I had decided to drown my sorrows. Cheap beer was what I was looking for and I saw something in the cooler. Years ago, when I was a kid, my dad had drunk one beer and one beer only. Olympia beer, brewed with the mountain waters of the state of Washington. “Oly” was what my dad called it. For years, Oly was the only beer I knew existed.
When he’d get home, my dad would sit down in his chair, put his feet up, and I’d bring him a beer. But before he got it, I’d get my shot at it first. In the kitchen, I’d pop the can open and take the first swig. My dad knew I did it, especially after a few years and the swig got bigger and bigger and the can of beer that arrived in his hand got lighter and lighter. It was one of those things that pass between father and son. We never talked about it. It just was.
Standing there in the convenience store, thirty years later, trying to deal with the fact that my wife had walked out on me and taken our kids with her, I was struck by the sight of a case of Oly. Immediately I was taken back to when I was seven or eight. Dad was home. It was time for his beer. I could see my little hand reach into the refrigerator, push a few things to the side, and grab a can of the golden nectar. I could hear the contents of the refrigerator door rattle as I slammed the door shut. “Easy out there, big guy,” my dad yelled to me.
This was back in the days when there were still pull tabs. I could see my hand pulling the tab off and throwing it in the garbage can in the corner of the kitchen. Quickly, I brought the can to my lips and took that first swallow of beer. It was so cold I imagined that it was actually ice cold water straight from those Washington mountains. The carbonation of the beer and the gentle bitterness of the cascade hops bothered me just a bit, but not enough to take away the thrill of having taken a sip of beer. I was hooked.
Needless to say, there wasn’t a better way to drown my sorrows then to get drunk with a case of Oly. I took one, then decided to take another. On the way to the counter, I added a bag of chips and a box of Twinkies. It was going to be a hell of an evening.
I put my treasures on the counter and waited for the clerk to tell me what the damage would be. “That’ll be $14.38,” he told me. And then I heard the sound. Apparently, the clerk could tell I wasn’t really there anymore. “Is there anything else, sir?” he asked.
Somewhere in my mind I noticed that he had that quizzical look on his face, as though he could tell I had gone somewhere else. Behind me there was a woman walking down one of the aisles of the little store. The sound of her high-heeled shoes had taken me back to another time when I was seven or eight years old.
My parents had gone out for the night and left me with a babysitter. She made me go to bed earlier than normal not because of anything I had done. The girl just didn’t want to have to deal with a snot-nosed little kid. Babysitting was something she did for the money and nothing else. Before the sun had gone down, I was in bed.
Whenever my parents went out, I always tried as hard as I could to stay awake until they got home. I was a fearful boy and was convinced that something would happen to them. I needed to know that they were safe before I fell asleep. As hard as I tried, though, I usually didn’t succeed. That night was no different. I fell asleep with my fears a long time before they got home.
At some point that night, I was awakened by the sound of my door creaking open. The light from the hallway shined weakly into my room preventing me from seeing anything but my mom’s silhouette. But I knew it was her, I could smell the fading scent of her perfume and saw the way she tilted her head when she first looked in my room. She walked quietly towards my bed and leaned over. As her lips brushed lightly on my cheek, I heard her say what she said every night when I went to bed, “Good night, my little man.” When she turned and walked out of my room, I feel asleep to the sound of her high-heeled shoes clip-clopping down the hardwood floors of the hallway, just like the sound I now heard behind me somewhere in the store. My mom and dad were home. Everything was all right. I could go back to sleep.
“Is there anything else you need?” the clerk asked again, bringing me out of my reverie.
“Uh. No,” I replied. I had no idea how long I’d been with my memories. I looked behind me and saw that a line had begun to form behind me. Three or four people looking to buy their extra large sodas, high calorie snacks, and lottery tickets were waiting, looking back at me. At the end of the line was a young woman. I looked down at her feet and saw the source of my memory. She was wearing simple black heels, just like the ones my mother had when I was young. I looked back up at her face and smiled.
Turning back to the clerk, I said, “Actually, I do need something, but it isn’t here. Sorry to have taken your time.”
“Whatever,” the clerk replied with a sigh, pushing to the side the stuff I had placed on the counter, and reaching for the goods the next customer in line had, as I left the store.
I walked out of the store and found a seat on the curb outside. I took the cell phone out of my pocket and dialed the number. It had been years since I had called her. Too many issues had arisen and we had stopped talking to each other.
“Hello,” she said when the connection was made. She sounded so much older than I remembered.
“Mom?”
“Who is this?”
“Mom. It’s me. Scott.”
“Scott?” she said, her voice beginning to break. “Is it really you?”
“Yeah. It’s really me, mom.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong . . . aw, hell, mom, everything’s wrong. I just needed to talk to you.”
“I’m glad you called, my little man.”
SHOES
The clerk looked at me, quizzically, “Is there anything else, sir?” I didn’t hear him, I was too busy listening to something else. A sound had distracted me and took me back to a piece of my past. It’s odd how sights, sounds, and aromas can hit you and bring back a memory.
The first such incident of the day had happened when I walked into the convenience store and made my way to the cooler in the back. It had been a rough few weeks and I had decided to drown my sorrows. Cheap beer was what I was looking for and I saw something in the cooler. Years ago, when I was a kid, my dad had drunk one beer and one beer only. Olympia beer, brewed with the mountain waters of the state of Washington. “Oly” was what my dad called it. For years, Oly was the only beer I knew existed.
When he’d get home, my dad would sit down in his chair, put his feet up, and I’d bring him a beer. But before he got it, I’d get my shot at it first. In the kitchen, I’d pop the can open and take the first swig. My dad knew I did it, especially after a few years and the swig got bigger and bigger and the can of beer that arrived in his hand got lighter and lighter. It was one of those things that pass between father and son. We never talked about it. It just was.
Standing there in the convenience store, thirty years later, trying to deal with the fact that my wife had walked out on me and taken our kids with her, I was struck by the sight of a case of Oly. Immediately I was taken back to when I was seven or eight. Dad was home. It was time for his beer. I could see my little hand reach into the refrigerator, push a few things to the side, and grab a can of the golden nectar. I could hear the contents of the refrigerator door rattle as I slammed the door shut. “Easy out there, big guy,” my dad yelled to me.
This was back in the days when there were still pull tabs. I could see my hand pulling the tab off and throwing it in the garbage can in the corner of the kitchen. Quickly, I brought the can to my lips and took that first swallow of beer. It was so cold I imagined that it was actually ice cold water straight from those Washington mountains. The carbonation of the beer and the gentle bitterness of the cascade hops bothered me just a bit, but not enough to take away the thrill of having taken a sip of beer. I was hooked.
Needless to say, there wasn’t a better way to drown my sorrows then to get drunk with a case of Oly. I took one, then decided to take another. On the way to the counter, I added a bag of chips and a box of Twinkies. It was going to be a hell of an evening.
I put my treasures on the counter and waited for the clerk to tell me what the damage would be. “That’ll be $14.38,” he told me. And then I heard the sound. Apparently, the clerk could tell I wasn’t really there anymore. “Is there anything else, sir?” he asked.
Somewhere in my mind I noticed that he had that quizzical look on his face, as though he could tell I had gone somewhere else. Behind me there was a woman walking down one of the aisles of the little store. The sound of her high-heeled shoes had taken me back to another time when I was seven or eight years old.
My parents had gone out for the night and left me with a babysitter. She made me go to bed earlier than normal not because of anything I had done. The girl just didn’t want to have to deal with a snot-nosed little kid. Babysitting was something she did for the money and nothing else. Before the sun had gone down, I was in bed.
Whenever my parents went out, I always tried as hard as I could to stay awake until they got home. I was a fearful boy and was convinced that something would happen to them. I needed to know that they were safe before I fell asleep. As hard as I tried, though, I usually didn’t succeed. That night was no different. I fell asleep with my fears a long time before they got home.
At some point that night, I was awakened by the sound of my door creaking open. The light from the hallway shined weakly into my room preventing me from seeing anything but my mom’s silhouette. But I knew it was her, I could smell the fading scent of her perfume and saw the way she tilted her head when she first looked in my room. She walked quietly towards my bed and leaned over. As her lips brushed lightly on my cheek, I heard her say what she said every night when I went to bed, “Good night, my little man.” When she turned and walked out of my room, I feel asleep to the sound of her high-heeled shoes clip-clopping down the hardwood floors of the hallway, just like the sound I now heard behind me somewhere in the store. My mom and dad were home. Everything was all right. I could go back to sleep.
“Is there anything else you need?” the clerk asked again, bringing me out of my reverie.
“Uh. No,” I replied. I had no idea how long I’d been with my memories. I looked behind me and saw that a line had begun to form behind me. Three or four people looking to buy their extra large sodas, high calorie snacks, and lottery tickets were waiting, looking back at me. At the end of the line was a young woman. I looked down at her feet and saw the source of my memory. She was wearing simple black heels, just like the ones my mother had when I was young. I looked back up at her face and smiled.
Turning back to the clerk, I said, “Actually, I do need something, but it isn’t here. Sorry to have taken your time.”
“Whatever,” the clerk replied with a sigh, pushing to the side the stuff I had placed on the counter, and reaching for the goods the next customer in line had, as I left the store.
I walked out of the store and found a seat on the curb outside. I took the cell phone out of my pocket and dialed the number. It had been years since I had called her. Too many issues had arisen and we had stopped talking to each other.
“Hello,” she said when the connection was made. She sounded so much older than I remembered.
“Mom?”
“Who is this?”
“Mom. It’s me. Scott.”
“Scott?” she said, her voice beginning to break. “Is it really you?”
“Yeah. It’s really me, mom.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong . . . aw, hell, mom, everything’s wrong. I just needed to talk to you.”
“I’m glad you called, my little man.”
posted by Sparky at 8:13 PM
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