Pirates of the Retail Wasteland (14 page)

“There. Thanks for waiting,” said Andy to the woman. “Now, do you want a drink?”

“You know what?” she said. “I don’t!”

And she turned on her heel and walked out of the store, as though she’d just had the last word. As the door slammed shut behind her, I heard her shouting “Good gravy!” at the snowy heavens.

“Well,” said Andy, “she certainly showed me.” He and Troy laughed.

“Man, I hate that lady,” said Troy. “She always makes us remake the drink four or five times before it’s good enough.”

Brian took his camera to the window and filmed the tacky lady getting back into her car.

“You wanna pack it in while we’re still ahead?” I asked. “I’d say we’ve already had a pretty successful takeover. We have more than enough footage.”

“Maybe we should,” said Anna. “Jenny? What do you think?”

Jenny shrugged, and I noticed she was zooming in on my face. Probably had been for some time. “Maybe you should,” she said.

“Um, not yet,” said Brian. “Look who’s here.”

I turned toward the door and saw Coach Hunter walking across the parking lot.

“Oh man,” said Troy. “I remember that guy.”

“I don’t believe this,” I said. “First Mrs. Smollet, and now this jerk?”

“Who is it?” asked Andy.

“It’s the middle school gym teacher,” Troy told him.

“I’ll decaf him.”

“Places!” shouted Anna. She and I got into the chairs behind the desks, Brian picked up his camera, and Edie got mine back from Jenny, who smiled and headed back to the booth in the corner. Coach Hunter walked in the door and was clearly surprised to see us.

“What’s going on here?” he asked as kicked the snow off his boots.

“Wackfords has been taken over by pirates,” Anna explained, “and is now an accounting and midlevel management strategies office.”

He stared ahead for a second, not saying anything, with that confused look he always got when confronted with a problem that could not be solved with push-ups.

“You want a drink?” Andy asked him. “On the house.”

“Yes, please,” he said. “I don’t know what’s going on in this town anymore!”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Andy, who was polishing a bottle of syrup and sort of looking like a bartender. “Want to talk about it?”

Coach Hunter stepped around behind the desks and put his elbow up on the counter with a sigh. “I work down at the middle school, coaching gym for these kids,” he said, indicating us. “In the past week, some lousy kid has slipped thirteen nasty poems about how much it sucks to be a gym teacher into my office. And I’m certain that these punks know who it was.”

“I keep telling you we don’t!” I said.

“My friend,” said Andy, “you’re talking to a man who knows all about bad jobs. I’ve had plenty of them.”

“I thought I’d come into the coffeehouse,” Coach Hunter continued, “sit back and relax for a while, and maybe ask around, see if anyone knows anything. I mean, it’s a coffee shop, all the artistic kids probably hang out here on the weekend, right? So I drive out here through a blizzard, and what do I find? More students, taking the place over and saying it’s an office now. I just can’t get a break! And I’m on to you, Harris!” He pointed at me.

“It’s not polite to point,” I said.

“Harris!” he barked. “Drop and give…” He paused. Obviously, he couldn’t order me to do push-ups outside of school, but trying to do so was a reflex. Without being able to fall back on his instincts, he was at a loss for words.

“Well,” said Andy, “I’m sorry to hear that. What would you care to drink? Anything you like is on us.”

He looked over at me, as if to say “Let this one go,” and I nodded. Poor Coach Hunter really did seem to be at the end of his rope. I imagined him leaning on the counter, downing shots of coffee and slurring things like “I do push-ups better when I’ve had a few!”

He was also, I noticed, the first person who came in thinking Wackfords was a cool coffeehouse where artists hung out. I could see the slogan now: “Wackfords Coffee: Your Gym Teacher Thinks It’s Pretty Hip.”

“I’ll try a cappuccino,” said Coach Hunter.

“Sure,” said Andy. “Troy, make the good man a double.”

“Sure thing,” said Troy.

Troy got to work making it, and Coach Hunter looked down at the desk.

“That stapler looks familiar,” he said.

“Well,” I said, “many staplers look alike, I guess.”

He grunted a bit, then looked out the window.

“Leon,” said Anna. “Look outside!”

Out in the parking lot, a familiar van—my parents’—was pulling in, and I could see my dad’s mostly bald head at the wheel.

“What in the fresh, green hell?” I said. “I didn’t know he even came to Wackfords!”

“Maybe he was looking for another place to do some slam dancing,” said Anna.

“At Wackfords?” I asked. Then I shook my head for a second. It really did make sense—if there was anybody who thought Wackfords would be a really groovy place to rock out, it would be my dad.

He did a bit of a double take when he opened the door and saw me. I smiled sheepishly.

“Leon!” he said. “Your note said you were out doing stuff for your monument.”

“We are,” I said. “It’s sort of a weird monument.”

He looked at me suspiciously for a second. “I guess it must be,” he said. “I didn’t think you liked Wackfords.”

Right about then, Troy called out, “Mezzo cappuccino,” and put a cup on the counter. Coach Hunter picked it up, took all of a single sip, and made a nasty face.

“Where’s the drink?” he said. “This is a cup of foam!”

“That’s a cappuccino,” said Andy. “It’s two shots of espresso, a dash of milk, and a whole lot of foam.”

“The cappuccinos at the Quickway aren’t like that!” he grumbled.

“Hey, dude,” said my dad, chuckling. “This isn’t the gas station! Get hip!”

Coach Hunter frowned at him, and I knew I had to break up the conversation before Dad found out that Coach Hunter knew who I was. He’d surely ask how I was doing in gym class.

“What are you doing here, anyway?” I asked Dad.

“I’m meeting Mr. Streich here in a few minutes,” he said. “I’m going to talk to him about being in my rock band.”

“Mr. Streich is coming here?” I asked.

“Yeah,” said Dad. “I thought he’d be here by now, in fact. Guess the snow slowed him down.”

“Oh crap,” Anna muttered. And she got up, grabbed me by the arm, and dragged me back into the back room.

“We’ve got to call it a day,” she said. “If Streich finds out exactly what we’re doing, there’s no way he’ll let us use it as our project.”

“He might,” I said. “He’ll probably think it’s funny.”

“Yeah, but it also might be a felony, or at least a misdemeanor,” said Anna. “If there’s any evidence whatsoever that he knew about it ahead of time, he’ll be fired for sure.”

Just then, Andy stuck his head around the corner.

“Minor problem,” he said. “King Harold’s chariot just arrived.” He made a little trumpet noise.

“The boss?” Anna asked.

“Don’t worry,” I said. “We were just about to pack things up.”

McHobos look for signs to tell them it’s time to move on, according to Andy. If Mr. Streich, my dad, and the boss showing up at the same time wasn’t a sign for pirates to give up the ship, I didn’t know what was.

We ran out from the back, quickly told Brian and Edie what was going on, and started cleaning up as fast as we could.

I went on a mad dash around the store, tearing down the motivational posters, while Anna got the watercooler and filing cabinet away from the condiment bar. Brian and Edie got started folding up the tables. I just barely managed to get the last poster down before Harold, who was a lanky guy with mustache and a hairline that had receded its way to his neck, walked in. He looked a bit like an older, balder version of Mr. Morton. Brian and Edie had the tables folded up, but they were still on the floor, along with the folding chairs, and the plants were still set up.

“What’s going on here?” Harold asked. He looked around the room, a bit confused and a bit horrified. He really did seem to have a stick up his butt.

“Just business as usual, Harold,” said Andy, wiping down the counter.

“I mean, what’s with these tables and ferns?”

Brian stepped forward. “Cookies,” he said.

Harold looked over at him. “Cookies?” he asked.

“Yeah,” said Brian. “Girl Scout cookies. My little sister had about thirty boxes left over, and we set up a table here to sell them off. We just sold the last box a minute ago, so we’re packing up.”

“You guys look a little old to sell Girl Scout cookies,” Harold said.

“A little male, too. I’m just saying,” said Brian.

“All the actual Girl Scouts are out on a winter jamboree this weekend in Shaker Heights,” I said.

Harold stared at me. “And the ferns?”

“We thought they were a nice touch.”

Harold looked back up at Andy. “Did you allow them to set up like this?”

Andy shrugged. “I didn’t see the harm,” he said casually. “The Girl Scouts are a fine organization, and I know Wackfords wants to be involved with the community. They were going to set up in the parking lot, like usual, but I couldn’t let them freeze to death.”

“Well, you need to clear these things ahead of time!” said Harold, somewhat exasperated. “We can’t set up anything here without clearing it with corporate first, and no third-party flyers or signs are allowed. That means no tables and cookie sales, either.”

“There’s no harm done, though,” said Andy.

“We do things
by the book
here,” said Harold. “And the book doesn’t say anything about this.”

“Are you the boss around here?” Coach Hunter asked. He was standing off to the side, still looking confused.

“Yes, I am, sir,” said Harold, turning toward him. “How can I help you?”

“This place is out of control!” he muttered. “Whole town’s out of control! I’ve got kids sneaking depressing poems into my office, and when I try to come here for a drink, I get people talking about something to do with accounting and management crap, this guy behind the counter gives me a cup of foam, and then some
skinhead punk rocker
comes and tells me to be hip!”

“Skinhead?” asked my dad. “I lost my hair in a chemistry accident. I’m not a racist or anything.”

“Oh?” said Coach Hunter. “And I suppose you’re going to tell me that your hair was dyed green as part of a science experiment?”

“All right, sir,” said Harold. “I’m sure we can work this out.”

“Maybe you should do some push-ups,” Brian suggested from behind the camera. “That might make you feel better.”

Coach Hunter moved his glare over to Brian—he looked like he was just longing to tell him to do some form of calisthenics, but since he was off school property, his powers were pretty useless. Truly, here stood a broken man. He was actually starting to look the way he was described in Dustin’s poems: sad, confused, and scared, now that he was in a situation where push-ups were not the answer and any blows on his whistle would have been just unwanted, ineffective background noise. A vein in his neck was twitching, and I would have wailed with joy if I hadn’t been starting to fear for my life. The guy looked like he was about three twitches from turning into the Incredible Hulk.

Then he looked over at Anna and me. Then he looked over at the guy doing regular office work, who was paying him no mind, and then over at the stapler. He stared good and hard at the stapler, and I thought for a second he was going to crack. I’m no psychologist, but in movies it’s always a little thing, like running out of milk or finding out there’s a hole in your socks, that pushes people over the brink. Maybe the sight of a familiar-looking stapler was the thing that was going to do it to Coach Hunter. Only a guy who was close to losing it would be as quick to shout at someone over climbing a rope or square-dancing as he was, after all.

Then Jenny broke the silence.

“Go to hell,” she said timidly.

Coach Hunter looked away from the stapler and over at her, slowly leaning closer, like he was trying to get her in focus.

“What did you say?” he asked.

“I said go to hell,” she said in a very small voice.

He looked at her, and then at my dad, and then at the stapler, and then back at her, like a guy in a movie on the Count Dave show beholding the creature as it first rises from the swamp. Jenny looked incredibly nervous.

“I’m really sorry, sir,” said Harold. “Can I get you another drink?”

Coach Hunter looked up at Harold, then slowly shook his head.

“Out of control,” he said.

And Coach Hunter sighed and walked out of the store.

“What the heck was his problem?” my dad asked. “That guy looked miserable.”

“That was Coach Hunter. He’s the gym teacher at school,” I said.

“Oh,” Dad said, as though it suddenly made pretty good sense. “Well, that stands to reason. I’d be miserable, too, if I were a gym teacher.”

“You want to explain to me what that was all about, Andy?” asked Harold.

“No big deal, Harold,” said Andy. “Just one of those guys who doesn’t expect a cappuccino to be mostly foam. He was having a pretty bad day, I guess. Driving through the snow has everybody in a bad mood.”

“That’s what I figured,” said Harold. He turned toward Anna and me. “But you guys need to clear out.”

“Don’t worry,” I said. “We’re all done, and we’re just packing up. Right, guys?”

Everyone nodded. We stashed the tables and the watercooler in the back room so Andy could get them home later. I stuffed the motivational posters in the trash. That just left the filing cabinet and the ferns to be taken away. We started to pile them together. The guy who was working on finance was still there, still not paying any attention. My dad watched the whole thing, looking a bit confused.

“I’ll explain later,” I muttered to him.

“Andy,” said Harold, “we’ll talk some more about this after your shift.”

“No problem,” said Andy. “Good luck, guys!” He waved at us.

We all shook hands with Troy and Andy, I waved good-bye to my dad, who looked a little puzzled but wasn’t saying anything, and we were all out the door—including Jenny, who followed along just behind.

Jenny, in fact, practically skipped her way out of the store. “Did you hear that?” she asked. “I can’t believe I said that! Wasn’t it awesome?”