I came into the book store to purchase some textbooks to enhance my knowledge, and then left with nothing; however, I did buy a cute bunny rabbit keychain. So, you know, it was a success I guess.
As I walk home, I gaze upon my town of Stonewall - The anxieties plastered upon the townsfolk is evident. Who could this be? Who could this big bad murderer be? Probably Bubba. Ok, look; I know that sounds horrible, but I really just want him to go to prison and never return. Is that so much for someone to ask? To wish the person they hate the most to be brought down a peg? I really, really just want him to be responsible so I can go, "Called it!" for a second before I realize that he could easily kill me too, and then run away frantically. His violent temper is one I could go on living without having to encounter, and especially his misogyny. Like, shut the fuck up you small town hick piece of shit! God...! I don't even want him to die in prison; I want him to sit there surrounded by tougher men, and get the absolute shit kicked out of him. Jesus Fucking Christ, he fucking sucks so hard! He sucks so much his Mom was probably a vacuum cleaner.
Moving down the cobblestone streets, and down the donut shop which only serves black coffee and a glazed donut. My phone rings, so I pull out my phone to find it's Huey calling me. I answer.
"Yo." I say.
"Yo." Huey says back, his line slightly fuzzy. I'm used to it; I mean when you live in, basically, the middle of nowhere you get used to phone lines not working.
"Um, I uh..." Huey stammers, "So you're never going to believe this, but a package was dropped off at my house, right?"
"Huey, that's normal." I replied.
"No, no, but wait, you see! It's uh..." He pauses, "So, it seems someone ordered a director's cut of 'Rocky Horror Picture Show', and it ended up here, so..." He pauses yet again, "Any advice? Should I keep it?" Wait, wait, wait! 'Rocky Horror Picture Show'? Hmm... I should tell him to return, but the fact he called me over it tells me he wants to watch it with me.
"Do you have an ulterior motive, Huey?" I cheekily ask.
"Maybe~" I can tell that on Huey's end of the phone, he's probably smiling jokingly. I look around carelessly, happy in the moment despite the day of despair. Well, hmm... If I'm going to be watching this with him, I should at least ask he wants anything - This part of town is close to a nearby convenience store.
"Well, Mr. Rocky Horror, I guess I'll just have to come over then to help you~" I grin. "Hey, Huey; I'm near a convenience store, do you want anything while I'm here?" I ask.
Huey's line goes silent for a moment before his voice pops up again, "No, I'm good. Thanks, though. Appreciate it."
"I'll be there soon, I'm going to go buy a drink first. Kind of thirsty after a long day of anxiety." It is true though, I'm pretty parched at the moment. Maybe a coke? Although a nice tea sounds rather peachy.
"Kay', great. See you later, I guess." And with that, Huey hung up.
I began my short trek to the fabled convenience store of the convenience, and unsurprisingly, it wasn't hard to get to. I entered the store. The gas station feels empty and abandoned, but I can find a few people there. Browsing with my eyes around the aisles of junk food and liquor, I spot someone... Bubba. Shit.
"Motherfuckin' Penis…!" He cries. What? "The devil himself must have cooked up dozens of things." I am confused. Is... Is he drunk? He's yelling at something, I can't really see what it is well, but it looks like regular pringles.
"Look at the fuckin' state of disarray on your face." He points at the can, "Man, someone lost half a leg to that lunatic." What is he talking about?
"Fack you, Penis man!" Bubba swings his arms back, nearly falling over himself, "The lies you told me!" So he's drunk and angry at Pringles? Real nice, Bubba, real nice.
"You fuckin' SUCK!" I should intervene, although it really should be the clerk's job to deal with him, or is it? I mean, what does the clerk do exactly? I'm pretty sure they just ring up your items, right? But then again, there are videos on the internet you can find of convenience store clerks dealing with unruly customers. However, is it more of a requirement of the job, or just people who had enough? Seriously, what does a convenience clerk actually do? I feel like I should look this up. I pull out my phone and google 'What does a convenience store clerk do?' I get nothing, but google is telling me I spelt it wrong and then shows me what I should have said. I click the link to the actual 'What does a convenience store clerk do?'
Ok, so when you Google it, Jobhero shows up and says that, "Convenience Store Clerks provide assistance to customers and handle various duties such as operating the cash register, greeting customers, helping people locate products, doing paperwork, stocking shelves, and maintaining the store clean and organized." So now I know that, yes, a convenience store employee should be dealing with this drunken asshat, but when I turn to the counter to give whoever is working there the stink-eye; I notice that there's no one behind the counter. Are they in the back? Shit. That means the only person in the store that I know of is Bubba Washington. Great... You know what? Fuck this, I'm handling it myself! ...As carefully and softly spoken as I can be, because let's be honest here; I'm a twig, and he's an axe.
"B-Bubba?" Fuck! I stuttered. No, no, no!! Bubba preys on weakness.
"Go to hell! Suck…" He's still focused on the pringles. This is good, this is good. Bubba is drooling though, gross. "It!" There you go, Bubba! Finish that sentence. Bubba stops his ranting of Pringles and turns to me. Oh fuck!
"Oh, hey." He is as calm as ever.
"Hi...?" Why did I say that as if it were a question?
Bubba looks at me, scanning my face with his hazel eyes as if trying to unravel the mystery my face has going for it. "I'm..." He drools a little, "I'm not a drunk man, okee? No. I'm..." He snaps his fingers, "I'm a sober man. I do get drunk, you see..." He wags his right index finger around, "But I'm not drunk, alright?" Bubba takes his right hand to stretch his eyebrow and eye bags to widen his right eye, "If you take a closer look, you'll notice my pupils are so wide they're almost touching." He removes his hand, then puts his left hand confidently around his waist, and points his right index finger up, "That's science." He points at me, "You should know it. That's all that matters, alright?" He looks around for a bit before facing me again, "I'm not drunk."
"Sure…" What does that have to do with science?
"Don't patronize me, No-Dick Nick!" He gripes, clearly agitated. "I'm a drunk man who's sober right now." He pokes his left hand repeatedly with his right hand to emphasize his point, "A very drunk man, but a sober drunk man." He then turns around flailing his arms about, "And the Penis has been giving me false hope and then letting me down!"
"Oh, yeah. The Pringles." I say defeated. "Why are you yelling at them?"
Bubba turns around with the most grumpy face imaginable, "Because Penis fucking suck, dude." He points at the can while still keeping eye-contact with me, "And I'm sick of them fuckin' Penis. They are the fucking devil himself."
"I see…" I nod as if I agreed with, or at least, understood what he was saying. Wait a minute. "Are you saying 'Penis?'" I ask.
Bubba squints his eyes, "What's Ss, wrong with that, huh?"
I should approach this safely, "Did you mean 'Pringles?'"
"What?" I don't think he got it.
"Pringles. You're yelling at a can of Pringles." Bubba stares back at the can confused. Clearly I just changed his whole world. Then, he turns back to me.
"Huh?"
I think I might know what's going on here, "Bubba, can you…" I pause. Should I go through with what I'm about to say? Yes. Yes, I think I should. I need to know. "Can you read what it says?" I ask as politely as I possibly can.
Bubba gets up in my face, "Fuck off! Of course I can read it." His breath reeks of liquor, his chest touching mine. I'm severely uncomfortable with this, but should I go further? No, why would I? Why in the possibilities of this encounter would I push further? However, me being the idiot that I am, did just that. "Then what does this say?" I pick up a packet of 'Samson: Gummy Bears,' and hand it to him.
"What does this say, Bubba?" I ask once more.
Bubba looks at the gummy bears, and then back at me with disgust. "Gummy bears, it says gummy bears." He jabs my chest with his left index finger, "Look, Snozz-Hoblin, I'm not stupid."
I point to the part on the gummy bear packet where it says 'Samson.' "But what does this say?" I interrogate him.
Bubba looks stressed. I can tell he's trying his darndest, but he looks like he's going to explode. "I, um-" He stammers. "Hey, why don't we forget about this?" He sounds nervous. They say a drunken mind speaks of a sober heart. I think I know what his problem is, but I need to be certain.
"Bubba, can you not read?" Bubba looks shocked. It must be what it is. I'm not gonna lie, It's kind of fun to watch him like this. A scared little rabbit is what he is.
"Grhh, shut up!" He screams. "Just, gahh!" I should reassure him so he does not hit me.
"Bubba, it's ok if you can't read." I calmly say, "Plenty of politicians can't." Bubba falls to the floor, grabbing his head, almost to comfort himself, "Bubba, if you need help, I'm sure someone would be there for you." He rolls over to his side, now in a ball, "But please Bubba, please answer my question."
"I… Ah! …No, ok!?" Bubba, in a panic, flusters his words. "I…" He pauses, "Um, I was never taught how to. Fuck you!"
I think it would be best to get out of here before Bubba makes a scene. I mean, there's one of me and one of him, and the only one of us who looks like he's about to punch something is him. But I think I can talk him down if he just has a little bit of patience with me. I don't mind if Bubba is illiterate, in fact I always suspected it. Let's see, he's drunk, so if I could get him sober, maybe he could think clearly? Less likely to assault me perhaps?
"If I bought you a coffee, would you drink it?" I ask. Bubba looks like he's considering all options right now.
"Are you making fun of me, dork-weasel?" He looks at me annoyed, still curled in a ball.
"Huh?" I was shocked at that response, what's wrong with him? The motherfucker can't even take a kind gesture? What?
"Thought you'd take pity, huh? Is that it? Is that what you're trying to do? I am an American, damnit!" He pounds the floor with his fist. He looks like he's on the verge of tears. Is the alcohol enhancing how he feels?
"N-No!" I stammer, "I'm not trying to take pity on you, Bubba." I wrap my arms around me for comfort, "I'm just offering to buy you a coffee. Think of it like a gift or something."
Bubba is silent, it's weird. He then mumbles under his breath ever so faintly, "Gift?" His face sours, "I don't need a gift! I don't need your help."
"Oh." I step back, "Well, hey, um…" I anxiously think through my words, sentence by sentence, word by word, syllable by syllable. "Can you at least have one cup of coffee with me?" Impulsively I put my hands up in a defensive position, "Just one cup, that's all I'm asking."
"One cup?" His eyes watery from potential tears, "One cup of what?"
"Coffee, of course." I smile apprehensively, "You'll like it, I swear." He seems comforted somewhat by this, and it seems I've gained a small, but useful, amount of trust. I shouldn't waste this minuscule amount either, as it makes it less likely for me to be murdered. Cause, like, being alive is one of my favorite hobbies. I buy Bubba an iced coffee, and hand it to him. Feeling like making a joke, I attempted one.
"Cool. Here's the coffee. It's iced, because I'm always ice-cold." Bubba stops drinking the iced coffee, and then just stares at me. He looks so confused, which makes me feel even worse than I already am. He doesn't say anything to me, but that look he's giving me is too much. I just need to leave.
"Goodbye!" Frantically, I ran away, leaving Bubba confused as to whether or not I was making a joke or being serious. I'm so, so, so sorry, Bubba. The good news is, though, that Huey won't know about this. Well, Huey here I come.