2019-10-15 - Average Day

Six Thirty – nothing must have come up to distract as the big gray and green truck rolls in. The twenty something that's been slinging joe here for a year has moved to the other side of the counter and is politely looking off into space. They say nothing when the door opens, and the other regulars at God Awful O'Clock similarly pay no mind, they chat to as they normally do in lower tones.

The thirty ounce coffee, too much sugar according to the new employee, is gone with cash for cost and tip left in its place and then the truck is gone again, as quick as it came. Business returns to usual and one of the regulars, an older woman in her late forties shakes her head with a soft frown.

“Off again...” she murmurs, looking to the counter crew who put a mark on a small sign, at the top it reads 'Days Without Stuttering” and the number 82 below it.

"What the hell was that?” the newbie quips, all of eighteen, adjusting the cap she needs to wear when she's on duty. The 'vet' jerks his chin at the truck, chewing his gum and leaning an elbow on the counter,

“Just Thew Moore.”
“The Cemetery Guy?”
“Yeah.”
“Thought he would be scarier.” the young lady laughs as the older young man runs up the till charges and tucks away the money.
“Just let him be, things'll be alright.” a man at the counter grunts, “He don't do people.”

Curiosity further piqued, the young woman watches the truck disappear around the corner, brows up, “What he some ex-con or something?”
“Some people just like to be left alone, kid.” the mill-worker notes, frowning with a hint of disapproval. “Treat him like you'd the Murray house and keep a berth.”

Beck's Hardware, on the route to Stone Bridge. The door opens, there would be a bell jangling, and he'd feel bad for the reaction – but it's Tuesday, so there is a strip of felt wrapped around it, and Joel Beck behind the counter offers a silent nod to the figure that shuffles in and immediately down an empty aisle. Hair going gray early, scratchy beard, always looking over his shoulders. Joel has watched this since the man was a kid ducking in the store to hide. Watching him worsen over the years – going from pensive to strait paranoid as time dragged on.

No acceptance of help from Thewlis, other than when he moved to block sight of the boy from the local bullies hunting him... or from Maggie. He'd been nose to nose with her, had even called Child Protective on her – but it never came of anything. No one caught her, and Philip was a spineless prat who wouldn't take his boy out of there. So the boy just ducked in, hid away while Joel let him have his peace. Now when the man was there he was picking up supplies, but he was still hiding.

Watching Moore in one of the security mirrors, Joel, now in his sixties, allowed himself a sad frown – watching the young man twitch at sounds, and turn his head this way and that as if expecting to be struck or grabbed. He loaded what he needed in a hand basket, stood silent while Joel rang it up – though sometimes he'd give that small smile to Old Beck, even tell him 'Y-You... have. Good day...' before striding out fast as he could, sometimes remembering his change and when he didn't Joel would just remove it from the cost of next time, then go take the felt off the bell.

“Whatcha think he did?” a trio of kids, fresh out of their school day stand by the iron bar fence of the graveyard, young men full of bravado, popular, intent on showing their superiority. Varsity jackets, the popular haircuts, their unity in appearance and activity – glued to the most charismatic of them.

“I heard he cut up a bunch of folks outside Arny's...”
“Why didn't he get arrested?”
“I don't know man, he ran off and didn't get caught!” Incredulous looks meet this, the ringleader smacks the blonde in the shoulder and laughs.
“That's fuckin' stupid. Run away and the cops can't go get you? Fuck is wrong with you dumbass.” chided by the pack alpha the new omega ducks his head and backs off as the freckled one with his head shaved shrugs,
“Well I heard he's a sex-guy, wierdo perv and this is the only job he can get because he's not near anyone he can feel up.” hands in his pockets, looking smug, freckles looks to blonde who already has his phone out, crowing triumphantly.
“Not on the registry dumbass! Jeeze man, how did you not just look that up?” blonde laughs, moving himself back up the pecking order when their red headed leader hisses, causing them to clam up. They turn, and the Caretaker is still, rake resting with the tines on the ground, both hands on the handle as if to steady himself. He's facing away from them and Red signals. Blonde makes a hand step for Red and Freckles to go over the fence and the two sprint towards the man.

He's quick for a big lanky type and he's halfway round when Freckles is in his side and he's scrabbling away practically before he hits the turf. Red slams a foot into his ribs, putting him back down and Freckles heel stomps him in the ass. Blonde is laughing hard, for a moment and then he is dead silent when he sees the caretaker curling into a ball, there's something about him, the air is shimmering.

Red goes for another kick, twists his ankle and goes down hard, slipping on cut grass that was being raked. There's a crack, and he's holding his elbow screaming like the kids they lockered after forth period, the headstone he hit – un-phased by the weight that slammed into it. Freckles pauses, too close and one of Red's kicking legs takes him between his, sending him down to the ground like a bag of sand, coughing and retching.

The caretaker is running, sprinting, legs stretching out to chew up ground and carry him to the caretaker's office where the door slams and locks. Blonde runs, fast while Freckles and Red pull themselves up. Red's elbow is dislocated, and Freckle's aching groin is making him limp as he tries to jog away. They get over the fence, ripping clothing, destroying Freckle's jacket (Red can't his arm is busted man). They look for blonde, hear his car starting and try to reach him before the punk dips out on them.

“Seriously, you dated him?”
“It was three years ago.”
“Why?”
“He's sweet!”
“He's weird”
“He's a loser!”
“It was only three dates and then I dumped him.”
“Why?”

The ladies look at Thewlis from their corner booth as he slips into the diner, shrugged, shrunken, shoulders hunched. His clothes look like he was in a brawl, but he doesn't even limp, no split lip, nothing. Clean. He sits at his usual small table, back to the corner. Head down, menu up, hiding with little peaks here and there.

“What'd you even do?” Several pairs of eyes turn to the one who claimed to have dated the man, predatory eyes, they seem to follow Thewlis – but not always focus on him.
“I asked him to a movie, that Hostel one. We went, and he... well he watched it, and if I got freaked out he'd put a hand on my shoulder.”
“On your shoulder?”
“Yeah. On my shoulder.” green eyes turn to Thewlis who seems to always know when he's being watched. He ducks, face pinching, after he meets her gaze – a flush climbing his neck until he is hidden away. “He didn't try anything... if I got scared he just... reassured me.” the green eyes turn down a moment and then back to the other ladies at the table.

“Did you do him?”
“On the last date.”
“Was he that bad?” there's a sudden riot of laughter that draws the caretaker's attention. He looks like he's ready to dive away from a grenade and the waitress approaching his table purposefully interposes herself between the man and the cackling.
“No. No. It's...” Green Eyes frowns, “I couldn't stay with him. He was sweet, but he made me sad.” another chorus of laughter and now it's Green Eyes blushing. “It's not funny.” the others continue to laugh, sneaking glances at the man making furtive visual sweeps on the diner while he tries to eat his supper.

There he is. Avoiding her. Always avoiding her. No good, ungrateful, pathetic, spineless shit. Just like his father. Worthless. Sucked away her best years, the money that would have bought vacations, cruises. What the hell was she thinking letting Phil knock her up? How could she have wanted a baby, let alone that thing.

Maggie Moore (nee Haggardy) stormed across the parking lot from the post office to the truck, with it's windows open. She's a storm cloud in black jacket, old jeans, and sweatshirt, red as blood, red as hate. Hair in a lazy-bun, makeup faded. She was pretty once, very, all the guys were after her... and then she had to have a kid with Phil. Worthless sack. Once pretty features are sharp, snarling, bony even in her late fifties. Her lips are pulled so thin by the scowl showing off whitened teeth and her brown eyes, he has her eyes, look like they burn.

He looked at her, she knows he did. Little worm. Little shit. Little vampire. Worthless, useless, can't even hold a mill job. Piece. Of. Shit. He's trying to get the window up, running the red doesn't occur. Good, she taught him rules, but he's disrespectful and her hand shoots into the truck, long nails digging into the skin behind his ear as her thumb pinches down in the shell of it. He calls out and she hears the locks as she tries to pull open the door.

“Thewlis! THEWLIS MOORE! YOU OPEN THIS GODDAMN DOOR! GODDAMNIT THEWLIS YOU WORTHLESS SACK OF RAT SHIT! YOU LISTEN TO YOUR MOTHER!” he flinches away and she snakes her other arm in, pulls the latch and drags the door open bodily, forcing him with with her hand still gripping his ear. She lets go only long enough to get around the door, catching him as he tries to get back in, digging in again. Harder. Little pisant

“You don't call! You don't come over! I gave BIRTH TO YOU! I CREATED YOU! YOU OWE ME EVERYTHING!” she harpies at him, shaking his ear, slapping his face. The useless asshole is trying to get away and she twists his ear until the pain drives him to his knees. She's hitting him, the purse on her shoulder had slid down and was in her grip, like being bashed with a sack of bricks.

“Don't you ever try to hide from me young man. You're nothing without me. I made you. I supported you. I raised you... Worthless sack, like your father.” her hand is in his hip pocket, dragging out his bill fold, pulling the couple hundred in his wallet out and shoving it in her purse. “You. Owe. Me. This. You took everything! I could have gotten out of this damned town if it wasn't for you. I'm here till I die, and I have to deal with the fact that my worthless shit of a son is going to bury me! You owe me this. All the money I wasted raising your worthless little ass... you owe me this.”

He's sobbing on the ground, blood running from his ear, his lip, from his nose. He's curled into a ball, weeping like the baby he is. Her pointed boot slams into his thigh, then his ass, and she stomps away, hollering over her shoulder. “YOU VISIT YOUR MOTHER AND YOU PAY HER BACK WHAT YOU OWE!” and she is gone. The roar of her old Delta 88 fading as he leaves him to climb back into his truck while people remain on the sidewalk, stunned at what they've seen. His truck door slams and he is gone as well. It's an old site to see. It's happened plenty of times, but people have decided to ignore it. Not their problem

Manny sits out on the glider rocker he has on his porch, beer in hand, burger on a plate on the little table next to his grill. Thew's truck rolls up. Good man, Thew. Fixed this chair up for free. Tired old bones can sit and rock. He watches the hunched figure slip out of his truck, limp to the stairs and pull a few things out of the 'fix it box' he has set up. Manny starts to call out, but he sees the blood. See's the wetness on the man's face as it's illuminated. He turns, catching the old man looking, and Manny feels sadness and sympathy for the handy-man as he turns his gaze away when Thewlis hunches and looks to the ground.

He hears the door close, the locks turn and he looks back to the simple trailer, with nary a sound coming out. The silhouette in the kitchen windows. The lights go back out, replaced with the flicker of a television. Time to go in. Time to go in and eat. Rocking doesn't seem right. Not right now.