Damn it all to Hell

Damn it all to Hell

by Ryan Brosmer

This woman had the acrid scent of cheap soap. By the way it stung Ben’s nostrils he was reminded of the orange goo that was also pumped out of the soap stalls hinged to the walls of public restrooms like at the movie theater, the boys room at school and the rustic piss cabins that passed as restrooms at the campsite his family visited each summer.

This woman looked kind of rough. Her hair was a thicket of tangles and frizz haphazardly looped through hair ties and pins. The skin on her face was wrinkled and leathery to the point that Ben thought maybe she had been in the sun passed the point of tanning and broken the barrier of sunburn and now when the light and heat hit her skin it began slowly melting away from her bones only to harden again upon stepping into the shade or an air conditioned room where the molten skin set solid once again, each time drooping a bit further.

Ben thought maybe she had washed herself, taken an entire shower, with only a bathroom sink and gobs of that corrosive orange liquid soap to clean herself. Maybe she was homeless. Ben considered that a definite possibility and he began to prepare himself to give the woman her bowl of soup and can of Coke for free, waving her away with an understanding, sympathetic smile while saying, “Don’t worry about it. Enjoy.” and the indigent woman, grateful for Ben’s humanitarian gesture, would put the meager handful of change she was going to attempt to pay with back into her pocket and give a quick ‘Thank you. God bless,’ before hurrying out the door, embarrassed about her situation and the necessity of accepting handouts. Ben thought she would probably go sit in one of the metal chairs out front of the cafe and he would cringe because it was just about closing time which meant he would have to bring the tables and chairs in from outside to wipe them down and stack them in the corner until morning.

Ben turned to the cash register, the woman standing there, ready to pay and Ben was ready with his condolence filled smile ready to spring from his face. Then he saw her purse. A gaudy, plush blue and white and green paisley design, and from it she pulled a black leather pocket book that yielded a $20 bill from the top of a thin stack that Ben noticed contained no less than four more twenties, one fifty and a few singles. Ben figured he must have missed the purse; it must have been hanging below the counter and out of sight.

“That’ll be $5.45.” Ben was irritated now because that total on the register was also the current time and his shift ended and the cafe closed, doors locked and everybody gone at 6. He had gone into the back to fetch this woman her soup because everything had already been cleaned up and the soup had been stored in the fridge so he also had to warm it up. Ben had also retrieved her a cup of ice for her coke because he had just restocked the drink cooler so that the cans would be chilled by morning.

Why are you here? We close in 15 minutes! Ben thought to himself.

He always believed that it was given, basic etiquette, that you were not supposed to enter a store, a business, especially any sort of restaurant, within half and hour of the given establishment’s closing time. He thought it was rude. These people have jobs, they know what it it’s like. They know there’s stuff that happens, things that need to be done, before employees get to leave.
“I know, technically, that we are still open, but why can’t these people come earlier? Or wait until morning? Or just go somewhere else! Subway is open until 10.” This was Ben’s manifesto he delivered to his co-workers, whichever one happened to get stuck working the closing shift with him. “Why couldn’t they just come in at four when we had nothing to do?”

Ben now felt himself starting to glare at this woman and her now obvious comfort. He devised a new scenario for her situation. This one involved a wealthy, adulterous husband who, despite his infidelities, kept her credit cards paid and checking account well funded. So obviously she had no reason to worry too much about personal hygiene these days, rarely finding a reason to leave the house, his house, no longer a home. And when she did go out she didn’t feel the need to impress anyone. The skin issue was probably from years of tanning bed abuse and all-inclusive beach vacations. This woman was quite possibly unhappy, but she had lay on the sands of Hawaii and the Bahamas and probably a few nude beaches in Europe. She would have been free to tan all day long without worrying about her children, and Ben was certain she had at least three kids. They would have been looked after by some loving nanny who was more of a mother figure to them than this woman.

Ben hated her.

He handed her the change she was due, a 10, four dollar bills and 55 cents in change.

“Thank you so much,’”she said to Ben, smiling. “Have a great evening.” The smile, it was fake, or at least Ben was certain it was, a total farce to be sure. She slipped one of the dollars bills she had just been handed into the plastic tip cup beside the register. She walked out and Ben followed her to bring in the tables and chairs and lock the door. He watched her climb into the driver’s seat of a black Lincoln Navigator with a matching pair of “Bush/Cheney ’04″ and “McCain/Palin ’08″ stickers.
Ben gave her the middle finger as she drove off, or more accurately he gave the back of her SUV the middle finger and she probably didn’t notice. Ben felt good, he felt strong and redeemed.