Bandit,
What “Flash Fiction Department” you ask? Ultra short stories. Well, I thought it would offer your short-attention- span readers something they can handle in a pinch. Especially if you add a hot young lady photo to go with it. I can write you a series of these highly digestible Chinese-food stories.
Whatya think? Here it is, all 612 words….
–Paul Garson
The biker’s hands seemed as big as frozen turkeys thought Sheila the Checkout Girl. She didn’t look up as she swiped the rest of his groceries… two Hungry Man frozen dinners, a bag of Green Giant frozen peas, a half gallon of milk, and a package of Toll House chocolate chip cookies. He bakes? she wondered to herself.
The biker pulled out a leather wallet attached to his blue jeans by a silver chain and removed a twenty dollar bill. He pays cash, she thought. No credit card for a biker. She had to look up when he offered the money. He wore leather gloves, the short kind without fingers. Carefully she took the twenty dollars making sure not to make eye contact. Yes, very big hands, she thought. Plus there was a detailed tattoo of a seahorse on his right forearm. Maybe he was a sailor in the past.
“Paper or plastic?” said a voice with a low base rumble to it. Sheila looked up startled. “Wha…at?” The biker, his blue eyes staring straight through her, said, “You’re supposed to ask paper or plastic… for bagging the groceries.” Then he smiled and Sheila felt faint. She closed the cash register drawer on her fingers. Yelping and shaking her hands, she grimaced. Suddenly the biker was pressing the bag of frozen peas onto her fingers. She looked up at his suntanned face, a sparkle of light glinting off his gold earring. She forgot about her hand.
“Thanks,” she whispered. “I’m okay. I can finish ringing you out now.”
“I’m not in any hurry,” said the biker putting the peas into a paper bag.
Sheila looked around. He was right. He must have read the worried look on her face. He smiled, his white teeth shining beneath his long black mustache. “I’m Ben,” he said.
Ben the Biker, thought Sheila, then sputtered, “I’m Sheila.” She waited for his next words, her heart racing.
“Do you sell stamps?” said Ben the Biker. When Sheila looked blank, he said, “Postage stamps. Ralph’s sells stamps and I thought you might.”
Sheila shook her head, a strand of blond hair falling over his eyes. She brushed it back quickly. He was still there, Ben the Biker. She took a deep breath. “No, we don’t sell stamps at the Piggly Wiggly but we have the Sunday paper on Saturday night.”
Ben smiled again. “That’s good to know,” he said, gathering up his bag of groceries into his arms. Big arms, thought Sheila. And a nice denim jacket with a patch that read, “Ride to Live, Live to Ride.” He was staring at her again with his intensely blue eyes. He wanted her to say something, she knew it, but what? Her phone number? Let it be my phone number?
“Do I get any change back?” said Ben, smiling his glacier melting smile. Sheila twitched and punched some keys on the register, the change clinking down into its metal cup. Ben scooped out the coins. “Thanks,” he said. “Take care of that hand.”
Not knowing what to do next, Sheila waved an injured hand in the air like it was a small flag. Ben smiled once more, turned and walked away. Sheila had a sudden impulse to leap over the counter and jump on his back. A very broad back.
Suddenly Ben stopped in his tracks, then slowly turned. “Sheila,” he said. Sheila was about to throw a leg over the counter. “Sheila… I’ll be back Saturday night for the Sunday paper. Will you be here?”
