The Pillow Talk Revisited (Martin)

Now there it was. An answer. Bratty one was on his way to the Mansion. Someone he didn't even look at billed the shovel. Passed him the bill. The one to pay. Not the legal one. He looked like a teenager. Not that that meant anything. But he looked like a bored teenager. Distinctly disinterested in anything that went past the glass scanner window and through the computer wires, as long as some form of currency, plastic or otherwise, was afterwards given to him. Just don't look too closely.

The blessings of minimum wage.

Nobody looked at you twice. As long as you didn't do something stupid. Like pull down a pile of pillows. Like carry a shovel over your shoulder. A little bit like a gravedigger, wasn't it? The young boy payed in plastic money, retrieved from a small, used looking portmonee, the card swinging through the registers mouth, the small gaps in behavior that separated them from the general public. An old lady with a bag of cat food was in line behind them. She wore a flower print dress. Pink flowers. Martin noted in passing. Took note. Filed her. No danger there. Not the bratty youth file. Not the mutant file, too., rather probably. Not with those arthritic joints. Loading cat-food-cans unto the conveyor. Metal clacking filled the room, filed for the cashiers attention. More work. That had to be it. He turned around, left the two young ones to their respective aims, their goals.

Together to the mansion? With that one?

Rattling of cat food cans continued. A child was laughing. The rattling increased. A crescendo. A coughing noise. And a woman saying that she was profoundly sorry. All as usual. Now the boys attention behind the register shifted. Not Martins though. He looked at the youth at his side.

“Have a good trip then.”

And then he was gone.

The old lady in her flowered dress, the one with the pink flowers, she had fallen to the ground. He didn't bother helping her. He shouldered his shovel. And he was gone. The blessings of old age.

Minimum wage did not compensate. Nor did youth. A new shovel did. Partially. A book was taken out of a pocket, pen procured from some didstant pocket. And writing began. Dear journal: Today I met a brat. Its name was Caleb.