by Jay HOLLEY

I looked up from my buck­et to leer at two bick­er­ing co­eds who were at the oth­er end of Aisle 14. I thought about mouthing the se­quins on brunet­te’s blue miniskirt. I guessed from the flesh-toned Band-Aid on her calf that she’d nicked her­self shaving.

They were too far away for me to hear every­thing, but I could catch snip­pets of their con­ver­sa­tion. The brunette was point­ing at a box of Fruit Loops, ar­gu­ing that was sev­en ce­re­als in one be­cause of the cor­nu­copia of fla­vors. I snort­ed when she said “cor­nu­copia of fla­vors,” and they both glanced to­ward me. I’d sta­tioned my­self near the cran­ber­ry juice and was pulling the rusty lever that works the mech­a­nism to wring wa­ter from the mop’s head. They dis­missed me as so in­con­se­quen­tial that my eaves­drop­ping was­n’t a con­cern. I slapped the mop on­to the floor and be­gan mov­ing it around in tiny clock­wise circles.

The blond reached for a car­ton of Frost­ed Flakes and made to put it in the child safe­ty seat of the shop­ping cart they’d nav­i­gat­ed down the aisle. I thought about teas­ing up her skirt with the end of the mop han­dle. I wheeled the buck­et a few feet to­ward them. Not so much as to be con­spic­u­ous, I told my­self, but enough to get a bet­ter look.

“Look at this pic­ture, beeatch,” the blond said, tap­ping an im­age of sug­ar-laced flakes, “it’s nat­ur­al like Corn Flakes, like nat­ur­al and whole­some. But still a lit­tle fun.” A pla­toon of over­sized bracelets tum­bled down her lithe arm as she grabbed the Fam­i­ly-Sized box of Fruit Loops from the brunette. “These are, like, for chil­dren,” she scoffed, point­ing to­ward the day­g­lo-col­ored il­lus­tra­tion of toys po­ten­tial­ly hid­den in­side. I won­dered what her hair smelled like. Her make­up might taste like straw­ber­ries, I thought.

“Hey ho, Chief Bluecorn,” bel­lowed a voice from be­hind me. I whipped around and rec­og­nized young Char­lie Specks. His hair was longer than I re­mem­bered, but it had been two, three years since he’d gone off to college.

I strained to re­call his Scout name. He was a year old­er than my Tom­my, but had al­ways been the runt of the troop. Tom­my had two inch­es on him, easy, the whole time they’d been in Scouts to­geth­er. Char­lie was fill­ing out now. His face sport­ed the stub­ble of an adult. “Lit­tle Char­lie Specks  —  Lit­tle Red­fern, I mean. S’been a long while.”

“Long time since me and Tom and you sat around those back yard Pow Wow camp­fires,” he said, grin­ning, “the good ‘olé days.” He thrust out his hand, which I start­ed to take on re­flex be­fore pulling back from his shake.

“No­ble In­di­ans don’t greet like the sav­age white man,” I scold­ed as I leaned to per­form the se­cret cer­e­mo­ni­al bow of In­di­an Scouts Troop 143.

“For­give my in­dis­cre­tion, Hon­or­able Bluecorn,” said Char­lie Specks as he mir­rored my salu­ta­tion, “Litte Red­fern asks for your for­give­ness and in­forms you he must take leave for the hunt.” He nod­ded to­ward the girls and gave me a wink. I nod­ded my per­mis­sion, keep­ing my jaw clenched and strong as be­fit­ting a Clan Chief of my as­sumed stature.

I dunked my mop in­to the buck­et and wrung it damp again. I took stock of the wa­ter. About time to change it out, but there were still a few soap bub­bles — and I did­n’t want to go to the back room when the scenery was so love­ly. I won­dered if the blond’s mus­cles calves as firm as they looked. Lit­tle Red­fern pat­ted my shoul­der as he glid­ed past.

“Love­ly ladies,” he said to the squaws, slow­ing his walk. They matched his smile but did­n’t reply.

I no­ticed that the brunet­te’s waist­band al­most was per­fect­ly sized, her sil­hou­ette re­veal­ing on­ly the tini­est of mod­u­la­tions where fab­ric met flesh. She wore her hair up, with sil­ver pins hold­ing it in a loose bun. I won­dered whether I could buy a girl like that, if I had the mon­ey. I pic­tured her naked on ho­tel sheets, telling me she want­ed me.

“All I’m say­ing is, Fruit Loops are re­al­ly re­al­ly good so let’s just split the dif­fer­ence and get both,” said the brunette. I had­n’t no­ticed the sheer­ness of her skirt from my ear­li­er van­tage, so was sur­prised that I could dis­cern the white lace panties un­der­neath. The blond eyed Char­lie, who was still am­bling near them, hop­ing for encouragement.

“Sor­ry Red­fern,” she said  —  Char­lie and I were both sur­prised she’d been lis­ten­ing  —  “you’re cute and all, but we’re dis­cussing ce­re­al right now.” Lit­tle Red­fern smiled and con­tin­ued his stroll.

Filed under Fiction on October 5th, 2005

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