Something I just wrote on impulse. Don't be nice. PG-13 for tiny bits o' language.
*
Allen watched passively as a girl, no older than seventeen or eighteen, was helped into the police cruiser, cursing at him as if he was the very devil. It didn’t bother him – he did what he did for the sake of eccentricities, nothing more. It was a poorly paid job, nothing special, but he liked it well enough. He took a drag from his cigarette, knowing anyone that saw him would register a rather funny fellow with uninteresting clothes and impassivity visiting his face; it was a frequent houseguest, one he entertained quite often enough.
“You damn—” the teenager screeched, but was cut short as the car door slammed shut. No one seemed to realize she’d been screaming at him, no, it was much more likely that she was venting her anger on one of the policemen, in their opinions. Allen didn’t consider them very reliable people, but also didn’t bother to be annoyed at the simple little minds of most superstore customers. Tossing the cig, he swept back inside, another opportunity sauntering along – almost immediately – in the form of a shifty-eyed kid, some skater dude with nothing worth doing.
He swaggered down the main aisle in such an excessively pronounced way that Allen was surprised no one had yet called an ambulance, mistaking his walk for some sort of life-threatening seizure. In a roundabout way, Allen tailed him to the electronics section, where he continued his act of forced detachment. It was with amusement that he watched Mr. Squeaky-Sneakers swipe a few CDs, not even bothering to glance around before scrabbling at the plastic wrap.
“Ohh, yeah. Getting those things off is like pulling a red ant’s face off your arm after it bites you – ‘s impossible, dude.”
The boy started in such a way that Allen thought he might have gotten stung by some horribly venomous black bee. He went about a foot into the air before tumbling back to earth, CDs scattered in every direction.
“Why can’t you steal music the honest way? Like, on your jacked laptop, or something?”
The funny kid with the sneakers that squealed like baby pigs when you stepped on them looked up from the minimal carnage, green-brown eyes wide with apprehension. He looks like a little hyena, Allen noted, the tiniest smile shivering across his face.
“I… I don’t have a laptop,” he stated. “And don’t call me Norman.”
“What?” Allen frowned, for once confused. “Oh, you mean, like, because it’s such a hideously ugly name – you’d never want to be mistaken for someone christened ‘Norman’.”
“Uhm, no. I just said ‘don’t call me Norman’ because as soon as I do tell you that it’s Norman you’ll laugh, and call me that. It’s Nor, ‘kay?”
Allen was intrigued; surprised that for once, the thief wasn’t just a shifty, brainless fool. “Ouch. Okay, Norman. Funny, I think it’s Norman like ‘Norseman’, so why wouldn’t you wanna be named after those dudes way back then that had those cool horned helmets and like, skirts?” he asked, honestly curious.
“Skirts? Why would I want to be named after a guy who wore a skirt? Never mind, you’re obviously one of those weird people who go around being creepy to see how more normal earthlings will react. Don’t you have Guitar Hero and eight-day-old pizza to go home to?”
Allen laughed, blatantly ignoring the shoppers nearby so obviously, he was surprised they hadn’t started cussing him out, yet.
“I’d tell you why not, but certain persons could hear, and then I’d have to kick them out of the store forever so they wouldn’t go telling all their little chicken-brained friends that Customer Allen isn’t actually…” he trailed off, waiting for Nor to get the hint.
“A customer,” Norman finished, accidentally letting a look of awe slip onto his face. To make up for it, he stood, replacing the expression with a sturdy scowl. Well, he thought it looked sturdy. Allen just thought it looked like someone had stuck a fork into his face and twisted.
“You know that little sandwich shop across the street?” Allen queried.
“The one where you can’t understand the workers because they have such thick accents and the tuna tastes like decaying wood chips?” Surprisingly, Nor was not thrown off by the sudden change of subject.
Allen nodded, clearly amused. “Yeah, that one.”
“You’re pausing like you’re waiting for an answer, but obviously I wouldn’t be able to describe it if I hadn’t been there, or heard of it, before. What kind of freakish non-moronic… freak are you?”
“Sweet vocab you have there,” Allen commented. “By the way, if you’re mom walked past right now, what would she look like?”
Nor’s mouth opened and closed multiple times before he replied. “Old. And that’s not at all ‘by the way.’ That’s like, miles in the opposite direction of our road of conversation.”
Since he couldn’t duck his head to hide a smile (Nor being so much shorter), Allen looked ceiling-ward, immediately closing his eyes as the bright lights shot imaginary arrows at them.
“In a manner of speaking," Norman amended. "Back to my old mom, why do you ask?”
Allen snorted, glancing at something that was behind Norman. “Does she have clothes that make her look worse than homeless bums in New York City and hair that could be mistaken for road-kill?”
“Yup, that’s her, right down to the letter. Is she… here?” Nor looked nervously
Allen raised his eyebrows, saying, “She’s marching up behind you right now. Read any good books lately?”
“Norman Jared Skorn! What the hell are you doing?” screeched an elderly woman with black-and-grey hair.
“Oh, hi Mum. I was just discussing the pros and cons of some cool bands with, uh, erm, this guy.”
“This guy?” she asked, voice becoming deathly quiet. “This guy?”
He smiled nervously, and Allen looked on, pretending not to notice how very much Norman wanted him to say something.
“Uh-huh,” was all Nor managed to choke out.
Without another word, Mrs. Skorn dug her claw-like nails into Norman’s arm and dragged him grimly away. Allen waved, saying in a voice only Nor would hear, “Nice surname, dude. Nice surname.”
And then mother and son were out of sight, and Allen, for once, wished his caught shoplifter hadn’t left so soon. He thought of the livid look on Mrs. Skorn’s face, and chuckled.
“What a pleasant woman.”
*
For the beginning of a short story, it could be worse, right? Now review!
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