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Authors: Tom Piccirilli
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the flower shop, The Corner Convenience had a shrill mechanical whistle that went off when you stepped on the inside rubber mat.
Timmons stood at his usual plastic-encased perch like a raven in a transparent cage, stacked high so he could see the aisles of his grocery; at the moment though he checked the cashiers' time cards, writing down numbers, mumbling to himself. He hadn't changed in twenty years. Once a man is bald and hunched and wrinkled, he doesn't have much left to change into. Timmons must've been bald, hunched, and wrinkled since before LBJ took office. The years didn't add to or steal anything from him, they just left the crotchety, selfish, foolish man alone, wouldn't you know.
I walked over and stared at him.
He looked up. "Yeah? Can I help you?”
“Could I speak to you alone for a minute please?”
“We are alone."
I cocked a thumb behind me to the MANAGER'S OFFICE: EMPLOYEE'S ONLY down the opposite aisle. "In your office.”
“Why? I can hear you just fine from here.”
“I'll explain in your office.”
“You will, huh?" He was suspicious, but knew me without knowing where he knew me from. "Look, I'm real busy.”
“I understand. It'll only take a minute, Mr. Timmons." He gnawed his lower lip for a moment and put down his pencil. "Make it quick, okay?" Warily, he left his roost, giving me sidelong glances, making sure I walked neither in front nor behind him. For all he knew I was a health inspector or a disgruntled customer. An elderly lady in a muffler carefully looked over the vegetables to our left, squeezing them in her vein-riddled fist.
"Don't squash the tomatoes," he told her.
"I never squash the tomatoes.”
“You always squash the tomatoes.”
“I don't even like tomatoes. I never buy tomatoes."
We went side-by-side to his office; he unlocked it and left the door open. "Now what's this about?"
I said, "It's about a foot too narrow.”
“What?”
“It's about the doorway to your new store. If it's the same as the one out front here, it's about a foot too narrow." His eyes brightened with recognition. "You're the Kendrick kid, aren't you? Jesus. You're the one who got Mary DeGrase's baby back for her. Goddamn." The respect in his gaze lasted another five seconds before he recalled the conversation he'd had with Anna. The light dimmed and went out. He spun from me. "Well, I'll tell you the same thing I told your granny.”
“I wish you wouldn't.”
“You listen. This is my place, I do things my way, and if you and yours got a problem with it, then shop someplace else.”
“You continue to miss the point," I said.
"She's a feisty old broad, that's for sure, and if—”
“Never say that about my grandmother, Mr. Timmons.”
“What?”
“Never call her a broad . Especially an old one."
For a second I thought he might say something intelligent and wouldn't ask me a clichéd question; but then his prunish face sort of fell in on itself and the neolithic stupidity and anger took over. "And just what the hell are you gonna do about it if I feel like callin ' her a broad or a cow or a gimp?”
“Punch you very hard in the mouth.”
“Oh yeah?”
“You've a rapier wit.”
“What?”
“Sit down." I pointed to the large recliner that was too big to even slide under his desk. "Sit down in your chair.”
“You're threatening me," he said, astounded. "In my own goddamn place you're threatening me."
"I'm not threatening you. I'm telling you to sit down."
"You said you'd punch me in the mouth."
"That was if you called my grandmother a broad or a cow or a gimp. I never said what I'd do if you didn't sit in your chair."
The door stood open and shoppers passed by frequently; too tough to be scared, Timmons remained in his stronghold and knew something else was going on here, but he was too dense to realize what. He eyed me with that wait'll you're on fire in the middle of the street I won't even piss on your hat glare .
Two folding chairs were stacked behind a
Timmons stood at his usual plastic-encased perch like a raven in a transparent cage, stacked high so he could see the aisles of his grocery; at the moment though he checked the cashiers' time cards, writing down numbers, mumbling to himself. He hadn't changed in twenty years. Once a man is bald and hunched and wrinkled, he doesn't have much left to change into. Timmons must've been bald, hunched, and wrinkled since before LBJ took office. The years didn't add to or steal anything from him, they just left the crotchety, selfish, foolish man alone, wouldn't you know.
I walked over and stared at him.
He looked up. "Yeah? Can I help you?”
“Could I speak to you alone for a minute please?”
“We are alone."
I cocked a thumb behind me to the MANAGER'S OFFICE: EMPLOYEE'S ONLY down the opposite aisle. "In your office.”
“Why? I can hear you just fine from here.”
“I'll explain in your office.”
“You will, huh?" He was suspicious, but knew me without knowing where he knew me from. "Look, I'm real busy.”
“I understand. It'll only take a minute, Mr. Timmons." He gnawed his lower lip for a moment and put down his pencil. "Make it quick, okay?" Warily, he left his roost, giving me sidelong glances, making sure I walked neither in front nor behind him. For all he knew I was a health inspector or a disgruntled customer. An elderly lady in a muffler carefully looked over the vegetables to our left, squeezing them in her vein-riddled fist.
"Don't squash the tomatoes," he told her.
"I never squash the tomatoes.”
“You always squash the tomatoes.”
“I don't even like tomatoes. I never buy tomatoes."
We went side-by-side to his office; he unlocked it and left the door open. "Now what's this about?"
I said, "It's about a foot too narrow.”
“What?”
“It's about the doorway to your new store. If it's the same as the one out front here, it's about a foot too narrow." His eyes brightened with recognition. "You're the Kendrick kid, aren't you? Jesus. You're the one who got Mary DeGrase's baby back for her. Goddamn." The respect in his gaze lasted another five seconds before he recalled the conversation he'd had with Anna. The light dimmed and went out. He spun from me. "Well, I'll tell you the same thing I told your granny.”
“I wish you wouldn't.”
“You listen. This is my place, I do things my way, and if you and yours got a problem with it, then shop someplace else.”
“You continue to miss the point," I said.
"She's a feisty old broad, that's for sure, and if—”
“Never say that about my grandmother, Mr. Timmons.”
“What?”
“Never call her a broad . Especially an old one."
For a second I thought he might say something intelligent and wouldn't ask me a clichéd question; but then his prunish face sort of fell in on itself and the neolithic stupidity and anger took over. "And just what the hell are you gonna do about it if I feel like callin ' her a broad or a cow or a gimp?”
“Punch you very hard in the mouth.”
“Oh yeah?”
“You've a rapier wit.”
“What?”
“Sit down." I pointed to the large recliner that was too big to even slide under his desk. "Sit down in your chair.”
“You're threatening me," he said, astounded. "In my own goddamn place you're threatening me."
"I'm not threatening you. I'm telling you to sit down."
"You said you'd punch me in the mouth."
"That was if you called my grandmother a broad or a cow or a gimp. I never said what I'd do if you didn't sit in your chair."
The door stood open and shoppers passed by frequently; too tough to be scared, Timmons remained in his stronghold and knew something else was going on here, but he was too dense to realize what. He eyed me with that wait'll you're on fire in the middle of the street I won't even piss on your hat glare .
Two folding chairs were stacked behind a
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