by Che Flory
cheflory.com
Content warning: implied transphobia
Jann counted the twenties in her till for the fourth time. She was prone to distraction, and the light above the register was flickering again. She would need to bring it up to Brandon if she could remember. She wouldn’t. She never did. She started the twenties again, but the store’s phone started ringing, interrupting her again. She answered, pitching her voice up into customer service territory, “This is O’Malley’s Office Supplies. How may I help you?” About halfway through her rehearsed answer, she realized it was after close. She had no reason to be answering the phone, but it might be some old lady asking for store hours. That happened sometimes. She could help them. They were always nice enough, but it wasn’t a confused old lady.
“Nice to see you again, Lennox.” Then, the call dropped. Tires screeched outside. She still had the phone to her ear, even though the line had been dead for a few moments. She clenched her fist, the forgotten twenties making themselves known again. Slowly, she took the phone from her ear and put it back into its charging dock. Her teenage screams claw their way up her throat, but she can’t let them out. She is trying to remember the advice of the hack of a therapist she saw for a few sessions in high school when she started scaring her parents by getting a little too real. He is telling her to take deep breaths before approaching stressful situations. This particular situation seems to have progressed a bit past this step, but a deep breath never hurt anyone. Her grip loosens, and the bills flutter to the ground. She looks down and sees Andrew Jackson staring back up at her. He catches her off guard, and she loses control of the scream, and now, it is out and rattling the pens on the counter intended for the impulse buyer.
The scream was too long. It took some of her with it when it left her body. She collapses onto the anti-fatigue mat, trying to catch her breath. It seems that she is sitting down here now. She pulls her feet out from under her and leans back against the label printer. The deep breaths didn’t help before, but she’s back to them after that scream. It’s been a long time since she heard that name, at least in place of her first name. It was still her last name. She moved a few towns over to an even smaller town, precisely to avoid this kind of encounter. Somehow, it is even worse that he contacted her on her work phone than by her cell. How is she ever going to feel safe here again? The tears that she had somehow avoided up to this point, dislodge themselves now. Her town got taken from her in six words she’d never be able to scrub out no matter how hard she tried. The life she built brick by brick was crumbling underneath her, and how was she supposed to stop it?
She needed a plan. She wanted her life back, but she didn’t know how to do that. A good start seemed to be finishing up the closing procedure. The twenties were counted for the sixth and final time, as was the rest of the cash drawer. She grabbed her jacket from the backroom when she went to turn off the lights. It was time to retrieve her keys from the front door and lock up, but she couldn’t do that. What if he was waiting for her out there? What if all the horrors of high school locker rooms and house parties had found her again after all these years and were ready to pounce and drag her back to their level? She couldn’t go back. She called the only person she thought could help. He didn’t answer.
RRCC 