The Minotauress

'Uh, sir?' The Writer raised a finger. 'I was going to buy something, and I'm rather in a hurry... '

The proprietor glared. 'I gotta take a shit! Do ya mind? Or I guess ya think that 'cos you're the customer, I gotta shit my pants 'cos you're rather in a hurry! Fuck!'

The man's cane tapped the floor as he disappeared.

I love this place, the Writer thought. He browsed the aisles, and took several Three Musketeers to the counter. A small television squawked next to the cigar rack. The Writer's eyes bloomed...

'Don't throw those leftovers away!' spoke an animated voiceover as a Donna Reed-looking housewife dumped a plate of food into a kitchen wastebasket. 'Now you can save hundreds, even thousands of dollars a year with the amazing, new Therm-O-Fresh!' Now the housewife emptied another plate of food into a plastic bag. 'You can freeze it, you can boil it, you can microwave it! Now your leftovers will taste as fresh as the day you bought them when you use the Therm-O-Fresh Food Saving System!' The housewife slipped a plastic tube into the bag, then pushed a button on a machine about the size of a box of aluminum foil. The plastic bag collapsed, as the tube sucked all the air out of it. 'The Therm-O-Fresh patented one-touch vacuum instantly removes all the air from your valuable leftovers, then seals the storage bag in seconds.' Next the edge of the bag was placed in a groove on the machine which heat-sealed it shut. Donna Reed was amazed.

That's the thing the two girls were fighting over at the motel, the Writer realized.

'Keep nuts, cookies, pretzels, even potato chips fresh as the day you bought them! The Therm-O-Fresh System includes five specially-designed jars with air-lock tops that you can use over and over again!' Now, the housewife stuck the tube into a valve of some sort on top of a jar full of popcorn. 'Watch what our patented lifetime-guaranteed industrial-strength vacuum does to this popcorn!' She pushed the button and the popcorn collapsed like magic in the jar. 'Not available in stores! Call now while supplies last! Get the patented Therm-O- Fresh Food Saving System for just four easy payments of $49.95. That's right, just $49.95! And if you call within the next ten minutes, you'll receive a year's supply of patented Therm-O-Fresh vacuum bags absolutely free!'

'Ain't that some shit?' the proprietor returned, glaring at the TV. 'Fuckin' Red China's buildin' a hunnert nukes a day to shoot at us, and all we're makin' is a bunch'a fuckin' Chia Pets'n these goddamn Cabbage Patch dolls'n some fuckin' shit called Windows 3.0! What's the country comin' to?'

'I couldn't hazard a speculation,' the Writer said, 'but I would like a carton of generic lights.'

'Fuck! You could at least buy Marlboros... '

When the old crank rang up the purchase, the Writer handed him the $100 bill from the Rolls Royce guy.

'Do I look like the fuckin' U.S. Treasury? I cain't break that!'

Now the Writer fumbled with his ankle-wallet, and put down a twenty.

'Shee-it.' The proprietor slapped the change down on the counter.

The Writer sighed. I come in here every week...  He slid two quarters over. 'And a bag, please.'

'Jesus! One dollar!'

The Writer winced but paid nonetheless. 'Have a pleasant evening.'

'A pleasant evening? You shittin' me? My hemorrhoids itch so bad I could run a fuckin' cactus through my crack!'

The Writer took long strides out of the store, just as a half-dozen Hispanics entered. The old man could be heard in the background even after the door closed. 'What is this? The fuckin' Alamo?'

The Writer contemplated Faulkner's The Sound and the Fury as he walked back to the Gilman House. How clever of the Mississippi Nobel Prize winner to title his novel from a line in Shakespeare's Macbeth. The Writer recited the ironic lines with each step back to the whorehouse: Life is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing...

Indeed, the 'idiot's' view of the world proved the most truthful...

The previous chorus of crickets was absent now, leaving dead-silence to hover through the night. At the front drive, he noticed Mrs. Gilman's mailbox hanging open; three long boxes were inside along with several envelopes. He gathered it all up and went inside.

'Well, hey there, Mr. Writer!' greeted—if a bit loudly—Mrs. Gilman behind the check-in desk. 'How was your nightly walk?' but naturally she pronounced the word nightly as 'nat-lee.'

''It was wonderful, Mrs. Gilman... '

Three chunky prostitutes in lingerie stood up at the desk as well, a redhead, a blonde, and a brunette. They all had big silly grins on their faces.

'You mean yer nightly walk home from the bar, huh, Mr. Writer?' jibed the red-head.

'I must confess,' the Writer chuckled, but only now did it occur to him that he must reek of beer-breath.

'Probably lookin' to git lucky,' said the blonde, 'but the Crossroads ain't no place to git lucky. All them skanky gals they got up there?'

The brunette batted her eyes. She would've had a great smile were it not for the missing incisor. 'Right here's the place to git lucky, ‘specially fer a handsome, rich writer like you.'

The Writer sighed. 'Really, I'm not that—'

'What's all that?' Mrs. Gilman asked, pointing to the parcels under his arm.

'Oh, the mail. I noticed the post box was full when I was walking up.'

All three of the younger girls perked up when they noticed the three long boxes under his arm. 'Any'a them boxes fer me?' asked the red-head. 'Or me?' added the blonde. 'I'se expectin' somethin'.' 'Me too!' exclaimed the brunette.

'Well, let's see,' and the Writer began to read the address labels on each box. 'Nyna Rhodes... '

The red-head's hand shot up. 'That's me!'

'Anita Gonzales... '

The brunette beamed.

'Beatrice Mullins.'

The blonde raised her hand, bouncing up and down. The Writer distributed the boxes, then gave Mrs. Gilman the rest of the mail. 'Probably just bills for you, Mrs. Gilman.'