Blondie

A Story by nobody99

The story of stupid boy.

I pulled into the gas station parking lot, the world around me was dark, except for the fluorescent lighting that emanated from atop the face of the store. As I stepped in I heard a generic bell that rang loudly. “DING!” it went, but it quickly subsided and was taken over by the reverberation of industrial humming, that originated from the oversized, stainless steel hood that shadowed the flat grill. The counter was made of a cheap, black, wannabe granite and behind stood a young blonde. She was around 5’5, blue eyes that gazed upon me with approval, long soft golden hair that, glowed in comparison to the black uniform shirt that adorned her. Her face was themed with an honest smile and she gave me a head nod that made me feel like I was the only customer to ever walk in the store.

The odor of onion, cheddar, and steak ‘um mingled with the air and wistfully snaked into my nose. The pops and crackles of oil, boiling on the flat grill, gave one the signal that a chef was hard at work. My feet went further, while my eyes examined all this quaint little store had to offer. The robust, colorful signs of rich yellows and reds jumped at me, begging me to partake in whatever offer they were trying to sell. The deli was a long structure characterized by an equally long curvature of glass that gave the consumer a bird’s eye view of all it had to offer. The light greens of lettuce, the dark greens of peppers, the glistening slices of ham, and everything in between. A boy about 20 years of age with a shirt that of the blonde’s, stood acne faced, pale, with a hesitant smile. I need not approach him I concluded, for he looks uncomfortable enough.

As my eyes browsed, what my stomach hungered for, the bell went off again. An insufferable noise, cold and callous. An elderly man shuffled in, his legs were weak, his body frail. He used the counter as support and leaned over it to examine the lottery tickets for sale. “NUMBER 7, MMMM, NUMBER 10, AND TWO NUMBER 23’S.” He coarsely asked the cashier. What an Old, crotchety, gambling fiend, he was. I made my way toward the fountain drink machine, choosing a bright orange pop that fizzed and bubbled as it filled up my clear plastic cup. From the machine, I went to the check out, where nobody stood, except the blonde. She told me I was all set and didn’t need to pay. We locked eyes and I replied, “thank you”, with a smile. I pushed the glass door open with my foot and left. “Damn I should have gotten her number.” I reflected.