Texted

Hunter
    My name is Hunter, and I just punched a guy in the face hard enough to break his nose. Now don't go and get crazy ideas about me. I'm not a violent guy. This was the first fight of my life, and I'm sorry Ed Norton but I know plenty about myself thank you very much, having only been in this one brief fight. I also had a good reason to break this guys nose. Aside from the fact that he deserved it. He is a douchebag. Clearly a douchebag. I don't actually know his name, but I am certain that he-whose-name-is-unknown is, in fact, a flaming bag of douche. So I broke his nose because he deserved it. (Sorry Edward , I should probably berate Chuck Palahniuk for his thoughts on fighting and self understanding) And the unknown douche is probably not a bad guy, I just need him to be to justify my actions, namely breaking his dirty little nose. Actually, it was kind of a big nose. Maybe I did him a favor by  making it smaller. And its probably going to be crooked now. Which chicks like. See what you got in exchange for my sudden burst of anger? Some character to help your plain, freckly face. You douchebag.
    Okay, I didn't really break a guys nose just now. I did break a guys nose once. Maybe 3 years ago. No, 4. Wait, 3. Yeah, 3. So my story wasn't a total lie. And he did deserve it. My girlfriend of the time was cheating on me with him, and neither of us knew it. So he really didn't deserve it. He was just another clueless, trusting schmuk who hadn't learned some common sense. But I broke his nose anyway. Maybe I should back up, we kind of got off to a bad start here.
    My senior year of college I dated a pageant queen. Seriously. She was in the Miss Tennessee pageant system. We went to school in Mississippi, so she had to drive up to Nashville every other weekend. I was head over heels for this girl, completely and utterly whipped. And so, apparently, was Dicky McDouchebag. What neither I nor Dicky knew was that we were getting played by Slutty McFuckslut.
    How did I find out and end up breaking Dicky's nose? I tried to play the conscientious boyfriend by driving to Nashville on the evening that Slutty won a preliminary pageant and gained entry into the Miss Tennessee Pageant itself. So 6 hours and a few awkward introductions later found me having a cup of coffee and chatting about knicknacks and kneejerks with Slutty's parents. As the evening wore on and no Slutty showed up, the two of them headed to bed, leaving me to contemplate the appropriate positioning of the congratulatory sign I had made. By the door, or the mantle? No! The bar! Definetly the bar. Now if I only had a couple bricks or a stack of plates to prop it against...
    2 a.m. is when she arrived home, slightly drunk and very out of breath. Behind her stumbled McDouchebag. The sobering up process took nearly 3 seconds, in which my saddened brain worked out what was really going on. The thing I still find incredible is that I wasn't mad. I was upset, sure. But not angry. More shocked. And very disappointed. I turned and walked back into their living room, scooped up my keys and wallet, and dazedly headed toward the garage door and my car to return home to Oxford.
    Slutty just stared at me. Gaped is a better word. Dicky was a tad slower on the uptake, and didn't work out what was going on until I was past him and nearly out of arms reach. But not quite. Cut to a slow motion scene. Dicky reaches his arm toward me, fingers extending to lightly grasp my left arm as I turn toward the door. That light little pressure was enough to set me off. I spin so fast that you forget this is a slow motion take, my right arm shoots out and connects with Dicky's nose. For a nanosecond, the forces battle it out, molecules rearranging themselves, until my force wins and his nose makes a small "pop!"
    End the slow-mo scene. Dicky crashes into the base of the bar, blood flowing easily from his nose, which is a total mess. Slutty just stands there and stares between the two of us, very unsure of what to do. Without thinking, I give him the benefit of the doubt and turn to leave. As the screen door squeaks closed, I swear I hear her apologize. To whom, I don't care. The fact that she is apologizing is fucking insane. Your boyfriend just broke your boyfriends nose, isn't that shrink worthy? Hi, Dr. Phil? Yeah, its Hunter. We have a problem over here at the McFuckslut's, any chance we could get your services? Actually, that wouldn't have worked, this was before the U.S. knew who Dr. Phil was.
    So thats the real story. You just caught me at a bad time. A weak moment, as it were. Although I guess it is good that we get my little insanities out of the way first. At least we can quickly decide if you can get along with me. Insanities was probably not the best word to have used there, as I am not insane. Not even close. I actually do see a therapist though, but not because I am insane. I just really enjoy talking about all those things that happened when I was a kid and probably have fucked me up a little as an adult. Like the time my uncle made me put on a skirt and took pictures of me. Quirks? Quirks was probably a better word to have used. Which makes me think of Clerks and what a badass Kevin Smith really is. Any man that can voluntarily agree to have his wife pose for Playboy has some cacahuates grandes in my book.
    And my uncle never actually did any of that bullshit. He was a famous Mathematician and chaired the Math Department at Missouri in Columbia. And I only see a therapist so that I will quit blaming myself for the above episode with Dicky and Slutty and be able to get on with my life. Well, my love life anyway. Life is really more of a choice than anything else. Every day when you wake up, you are actively choosing to not kill yourself and go to work. Most people don't realize the subtle differences here, but this is true. Factual. Irrefutable. Okay, it is arguable, but you can see the logic here. I choose life! And work.
    He is still a douchebag and deserved his broken nose. And I guess Slutty never won her big pageant. We probably would have noticed if a Slutty McFuckslut were crowned Miss Tennessee. I bet it was her name that did her in. Thats unfortunate.

Amber
    You wouldn’t, per chance, happen to know the difference between tennis shoes and tennis shoes, would you? Because apparently there is a difference, however minutiae, and I have been missing it since time began. It seems to me that the similarity in the names, meaning how they are exactly identical, should be a clear giveaway that… well, they are the same. Call me crazy, but if I, with my grand knowledge of shoes, were to walk into a shoe store and ask for a pair of tennis shoes, I would be delighted were the salesperson to show me to the shoe wall and explain to me the various benefits of this midsole versus that one, a Nike against an Adidas, and so on.
    I’m Amber, by the way, and the whole reason we are even having this conversation is because I manage a shoe store. I didn’t start out my life with the sole ambition of managing a retail store, but when I was 8 years old I used up my one favor from the success gods in exchange for having the dirty neighbor boy fall off of his bike when the front wheel went flying off from a perfectly loosened front tire. Looking back, it probably wasn’t worth it, but it does make a great icebreaker. Of course, this one guy I told it to on a first date had had a similar experience, although totally on accident, and had ended up trapped in a tree with a rip right up the back of his shorts for seven hours until his deaf neighbors finally found him. Nicknames, pictures, and years of therapy haunted him so badly that at the mention of my greatest success to date he overturned his chair and ran screaming from the restaurant. At least he managed to leave his plate undisturbed, that was some of the best tetrazzini I have ever had, and I now have a new greatest success story.
    Back to tennis shoes and Tennis shoes, the latter with a capital T now in keeping with the changes I have made mentally to keep the two straight during what promises to be an excruciatingly annoying conversation. And to add to things, I have watched multitudes of videos detailing the differences in scientific detail of shoes, not that that matters to Tori Tennis out there, the human encyclopedia of shoes that are made for tennis and shoes that are not.
    “Honestly, would they call a shoe a ‘tennis shoe’ if it weren’t designed to play tennis in?” Shit, I said that out loud.     
    “I’m sorry dear, I couldn’t hear you.” Off the hook. That could have gotten ugly.
    “I said, after looking at the product catalog, Puma does in fact not make a Tennis shoe. They do, however, make tennis shoes.” And very well, I might add.
    “What about New Balance? Have you got any of their Tennis shoes?” How is she keeping this straight? It’s taking almost all of my concentration! She must be a super-woman. Tread carefully or risk invoking her powers.
    I’ll assume that was with a capital T. “Over here on our clearance table, ma’m. I’m partial to the N804’s, myself. Those are the blue and grey ones just to your left. On sale, too!. Only $40, $39.99 to be exact.”
    “But these aren’t Tennis shoes, they are tennis shoes.”
    Did this woman birth, raise, and train Steffi Graff or something? “Apologies, ma’m, but they say ‘tennis shoes’ right there on the box, so I just assumed.”
    “Well you assumed wrong! Do you actually know anything about shoes?”
    “Do I know anything about shoes? No. Absolutely nothing. I don’t know what Prada is in or out this year, nor do I really care. I do, however, know that the midsole on any of the shoes you have looked at today will work just fine for either a clay or turf court, that the rigidity of the outsole will help keep your ankle from crumpling upon itself, and the insole will keep your heels from putting too much pressure on themselves during your workouts. But no, I do not know anything about shoes. Would you care to teach me, almighty mistress of the Tennis shoe?”
    “No, but I do care to leave your store.”
    That was a mistake, Amber. “Look ma’m, it has been a never-ending day for me, and my temper has been boiling just below the horizon for quite some time now. Granted I should not take it out on you, an innocent customer, but it  gets frustrating when you keep referring to a shoe that simply does not exist by the name of a shoe that I can sell you in any number of styles, brands, and colors.” I hate apologizing to idiots. Stroke my ego back up, stroke my ego...
    “I will accept that apology only because you are young, naive, and impulsive. You clearly need to work on your relations with customers, and you have got to learn to control your temper. You could stand to wear just a little blush, your hair is a mess, and I would hazard a guess that you are still single because you are completely intolerable. Either that or the man you found is too stupid or too cheap to get you a real ring and you wear that silly silver band to hide the fact. Oh, and as far as the difference in tennis shoes and Tennis shoes? Tennis shoes have little tennis rackets on them, clearly stamping them for use by serious players. Does a real basketball player use a cross trainer?  I think not.”
    “You are absolutely right. Andre Agassi wore shoes with little rackets on their sides throughout his entire career, just like Lebron wears shoes with little basketballs on them right now. I'm serious, he is currently practicing with them. Can't you hear the little tch tch's of basketball shoes on a hardwood floor?”
    She stands there for a long moment, looking at me with a combination of pity and contempt. I am quite simply stunned. Did she really just say that my hair is a mess? My curly auburn hair? “My pride and joy?!”
    “Excuse me?”
    I have really got to stop doing that. She forced me to do it, though! Rules of engagement clearly state that calling out another woman’s hair is akin to a declaration of war. Oh, it’s so on. You, my dear tennis player, smell like an old lady, your grandchildren never call you because you are a cheap old hag, and you weren’t invited to the youngest ones graduation because you still think he is 5 and brought him a wooden tug boat for his last birthday.
    “And I bet your grandson still wears Retro 8’s from ’05!” Thin and shrill, get it together Amber! But it must have gotten to her, because she is just standing there, staring at me with her mouth agape. Damn I’m good! That was a really bad year for Retro’s, I hope I didn’t give her a heart attack. If I have to call 911 from this shop again, I am almost positive they won’t respond, and grandma Servinator here will surely die and it’ll be on my conscious and St. Peter will make a fool of me at the pearly gates after the success gods have had their way with me. Oh this is just great, thanks for dying on me grandma! Couldn’t you have hung on for just a little longer? Like, long enough to walk out of my store, for instance? And, she’s still there, staring. Wait, her eyes are rolling. 180 degrees and counting. Yup, this is an eye roll. Get it over with and get out of here before you drop dead. Bitch.
    “I am never coming here again.” Good! And stay out! I don’t need your kind here anyway. The about to drop dead kind. You just cause me problems!
    Oh! You are still here. Well, uhh… hi there! How much of that did you catch? Don’t say all of it. You did catch all of it, huh. I didn’t really mean what I said about dying people, they can shop here all they want. I mean, I can’t really ask them to leave on risk of a heart attack, now can I? And I know I said “Call me crazy” earlier, but please don’t. I’m not really crazy, and most of what I do actually does make sense. Usually. Just stare at my hair for a while and get lost in it. There you go. Just like that.
    Not working? I must be losing it, god damnit. Seriously, you just caught me at a bad time. I know first impressions mean everything, but just save it for a better time. Like on a day when shoes are used for their name, not the little pictures of sports equipment on them. Hope you like to wait. 

Hunter
    I know we kinda got off to a bad start the other day, but you gotta hear this. Its so funny. Its hilarious. Its better than hilarious. Its filarious. Seriously.
I manage this store, right? Its a sporting goods store. I'm not actually that into sports, it was just a job to pay for me to go back to school, except I chickened out on it and never went back. To school, not the job. I'm the manager now, obviously I went back to the job. Anyway, its a sporting goods store and its mine and something filarious just happened. I just watched a guy fall into a pool of water. No? I should probably explain better.
    My store is in a mall and sits directly in front of this little pool of water where people throw in change to make themselves feel better. As if some orphan is going to happen upon this magical pool in the mall and be freed of all her burdens because you took pity and tossed in the quarter, nickel, and 3 pennies that just happened to be in your pocket. Mall security would never let a child near the pool anyway. All you really did was feed some stupid teenagers klepto phase and buy him a couple ounces of stolen vodka. Congratulations.
    Anyway, this pool is out front of my store. When nothing is going on, I lean against a t-shirt rack and watch the people as they pass by. I see this guy, this really ridiculously tall guy strolling along, totally consumed with his cell phone. He was probably texting, cause he had it in front of him with his huge fingers flying over the keypad. He's so engrossed in this text that he walks right into this little 2-foot deep pool of water. But its spectacular. There is this little step that surrounds the pool to keep your average person from falling in, and this dude just flops right over it. His last dry step landed maybe an inch away from the edge, and his next was right smack into the wall. Timber! Face first into the pool. I'm surprised he didn't come up spitting teeth and dimes. The step is even a completely different color from the rest of the tile and brick work. I'm colorblind, and even I know that!
    See? Fucking hilarious. Filarious! Whats even better is that I had a bet running with my assistant that someone would fall into the pool before the end of the year, which just happens to be 64 days away. I barely made good on this bet. Granted it was only a Snickers bar. But still, thats a free Snickers, and free stuff always tastes better. Why do you think the bread at Olive Garden is so good? Someone should sue them for false advertising. You aren't really family there. Where's the inebriated relatives? Maybe its the cooking staff.
    So I head over to help this guy, tears of filarious laughter having been wiped away. After all, I am an upstanding citizen and respectable employer. He's flailing around in this 2-foot pool of water, and I'm wondering if this guy is on something because he looks like he is trying to swim. Now that is a trip. I was just strolling along, then I fell and I was in the Gulf of Mexico! AKA small change pool. He's flailing around and getting himself wetter, and I can't for the life of me figure out why. Did he break his leg? Now I feel like an asshole. He probably doesn't have good bone structure because he is so tall, and his weight just crashed down on a tibia turned in the wrong direction and broke it, and all I can do is jump for joy over the Snickers I just won.
      "Are you okay sir?" No response. Just more flailing. Shit, I hope this guy isn't in shock. "Sir, are you alright?" Thank God, there's mall security. He can deal with him. Its his job, after all. Right? Right. I am not paid to assist giants with broken legs.
    "Sir, are you hurt?" the security guard asks as he scrambles toward the downed behemoth. Damn he got here fast. Do they have a security camera on this pond? Maybe its a laser thing that sets off an alarm when the beam is broken. The guard is this aging cop who has clearly had one thousand too many doughnuts. Nice guy, just don't expect him to outrun the punk stealing the pond change for booze.
"I'm fine, Jesus! I just lost my battery." giant man replies.
"Your battery, sir? We need you to get out of the fountain." Fountain? Who is he kidding! Fountains shoot water. There is no agua shootage here.
"I'll get out when I've found my battery." Giganto replies. Does it run his pacemaker? Whats the deal here.
    "If you will just step out of the fountain, I'm sure you will find your battery, sir." Doughnut takes the back of Giganto's jacket and heaves him up. Stronger than he looks, note to self...
    "Alright, I'm out. I'm out!" Giganto nearly shouts. He is really upset over this battery thing. I belatedly realize he means his cell phone battery, and he is drying the phone itself off on his dripping shirt. Probably just making it worse. Hope you had insurance!
    "There we go, thats better now." Doughnut looks Giganto up and down before letting his gaze roam around the rest of the scene. Its kind of boring, honestly. Nothing fun at all. And no one gawking.
    "There it is." I say, pointing under one of the benches. I start toward the little grey object, but Giganto takes two giant-sized steps and scoops his battery up. He immediately slaps it against his phone. I don't know much about cell phones, not being the proud, engrossed owner of one myself, but I would think that is a bad idea. Don't you usually want to let electronics dry off before introducing a current to them?
    "Figures. God damnit" Giganto says. (I usually give people names based on their most outstanding physical feature to amuse myself. This occasionally gets me in trouble.) He strides off, leaving Doughnut and I to just stare after him. As if staring at his ass will answer our questions. Maybe someone will invent a drug that will put a neon sign on your ass and display the drug you are currently taking. Then the staring thing would actually accomplish something. This would also be a fantastic warning against women who are on their periods. A large, blinking neon pink Midol sign on every PSM'ing posterior is exactly the kind of thing the male race needs.
    "That was odd. Thirteen years here and I ain't never seen that." Now I know why Doughnut was a cop. And thirteen years? Christ. I wasn't even a teenager when this guy took a job here.
    "That won me a Snickers." Damnit. Now I have to talk with him.
    "Huh?" Typical. Can't work it out on your own. Where, oh where, are all those smart television detectives? On second thought, this is probably why you work security in a mall.
    "I bet my assistant that someone would fall into that pond by the end of the year. Giganto just did. So I won a Snickers."
    "Giganto? Oh, right." So you do use your brain. "You are one lucky son of a bitch, then. First time in 13 years." Doughnut has had enough, apparently. He turns and waddles off the way he came. Probably has an uneaten glazed cream-filled waiting on him. You think cops measure something by the number of doughnuts they consume? It can't just be a stereotype. There are always cop cars outside of the doughnut shop in Aggieville. I mean, always. Thats kind of funny. I bet they measure the number of times they wished they had been in an episode of Cops.
    I go back to my store to collect my prize. My assistant, whose name is Jake, was in the back the whole time putting away shoes. I probably should have called him. Oh well. Doughnut will back me up should he call me out. Jelly filled bribes for the win.
    My shop sits near the end of one arm of the Manhattan Towne Centre in Manhattan, Kansas. I know what you are thinking, and the answer is no, its not flat here. Manhattan actually sits in a dip in the Flint Hills. See that? Hills. We usually miss out on the smaller thunderstorms because of our geography. Something about low-level winds being directed around the hills, so the storms themselves go around the city. They seem to like Topeka, though. Every other day in summer, you hear about Topeka getting hammered. Its a little sporting goods shop, selling mainly equipment and apparel. Had you told me three years ago as I walked across the stage to receive my Bachelor's degree in mathematics (emphasis in chaotic equilibrium) that I would be managing a sports store, I would have laughed at you and called you filarious. But, here I am. Doing just that. Life has this funny way of tossing wrenches at you when you aren't looking. Or shooting you with a b b gun. Either way, its nearly impossible to dodge the unexpected. Probably why that word has its connotation. I'm not a pessimist by the way, just very cynical. The glass is still a half a glass of water, no matter how hard you look at it.
    "Some giant guy just fell in the pond while writing a text message. You owe me a Snickers."
    "Lame, dude. Lame. Don't jack me like that. I can tell when you are lying." Really now?
    "True facts, and Doughnut will back me up. And your girlfriend wants you to call her. Said something about a neon sign."
      "What? Dude, I like working here, but you are really weird sometimes." Jake, if you use the word "dude" one more time today, you won't be working here any longer. Why has no one invented a counter for shitty words that get overused?
    "Doughnut is the security guard. You know, the big old one? Call your old lady."
    "Dude, which one?" You're fired. Suck it, Donald. "You mean Murray?"Tell me that is a security guards name, please God.
    "I don't know his name. But he'll back me up. Is your girlfriend named Murray? And you owe me."
    "Whatever dude." The 90's wants its word back, Jake.
    "I'm waiting." At least he stocked the shoes right.
    I go to my office, which is really nothing more than a broom closet. Sans the brooms. They rest against a wall in the back room. No emails. No phone messages. No customers. And nothing to do, really. Maybe I should get a cell phone just to fill in these moments of boredom. I wonder if they still put that snake game on them. At least I could be sending someone a text message. And not falling into a pond, either. Doing it from the comfort of my chair, here in my broom closet, where no fountain can get me. A nap could get me, though. Bad idea to text from this chair. I probably should do that standing up.
    But, I've never owned a cell phone, and won't any time soon. I don't have many friends, and those I do have know to call me at home or work. Usually work, as I am not at home that often. So a cell would be pretty erroneous and would just take away from my college fund. Sure. For when I go back to college. In my next lifetime.      I pick up the phone, intending to call my brother, but I hear Jake on the phone with his woman.
    "I didn't call, Jake. I'm serious. You sure Hunter said me?"
    "Yes, he told me to call you. You didn't forget?"
    "No, dickhead. Even though I don't have a Y chromosome, I can occasionally remember who I did or did not call." And she hangs up. This is priceless. Filarious!
    "Dude, you are an asshole!"
    "I'm waiting! And Jake?"
    "Yeah?"
    "If you say the word 'dude' one more time today, I will make you rearrange the store into an exact mirror image of what it is now. Cash register and all. So if you want to get home to Murray tonight for some quality time together, I suggest you be aware of what you are saying. Comprende?" Oh I hope not.
    "What? I'm confused, dude."
    "Thats okay, Jake. Go move the cash register." Why, oh why, did I choose life?

Amber
    So I have this college degree, right? In Currency. Which is kind of like a degree in Economics or Business, except that I had to take twice the course loads that any of those mediocre punzits had to, and three times as much math. What they don't tell over achievers like me is that no one in the “real world” has any idea what a degree in currency actually means  So, I am relegated to being the assistant manager in the sixth circle of hell, the seventh being reserved for precisely the same situation, except having a really annoying midget strapped to my back and blaring bad Eurotrance at all times.
    The one good thing about being an assistant is that I am required to be in the store one hour before opening in order to... well, I never quite figured out why. The entire routine for actually opening the store takes a total of 15 minutes to complete. Sure, I have to get there early, but its 9 a.m. since the mall doesn't open until 10, and that really isn't all that bad when you think about it. So, in my current silver lining mood, it really feels like I am getting an hours worth of pay to do nothing. I don't have to cope with anyone, or sell any merchandise, or really do anything at all. Free money.
    In order to take the most advantage of this blessing, I enter my shop and clock in at precisely 9 a.m., and then leave. Thats right, I leave. I go to the food court to get breakfast, or run to the bank, or any number of errands. Let's face it here, I live in a small to mid-sized town in which it takes a maximum of 10 minutes to get anywhere. I can even work in a haircut if I time it just right and do a little work on the accounting books while getting worked on. Plus, this guarantees a fantastic hair day, which is worth a full days pay in itself if you ask me. And besides, it's my hair. The best hair ever in the history of the world. It can be flat or curly, blonde, brown, or red depending on the light and what I am wearing, it can be bouncy or boring, fun or... fun! I like to watch people's eyes as they really see it for the first time. Now, some girls would get upset that their boobs are being attention starved, but not me. I prefer it honestly, as they are a little on the small side. Their eyes will wander up, then squint a bit, then finally lose focus as they get lost in the debate of what color it really is. Blonde, or red? Definitely not brown. Auburn, perhaps?
    This particular morning I have indulged in a sticky bun, a local delicacy served piping hot and fresh from Mr. Stevens. I try and do this only once a week, and always on a day when I will be going for a run. However, today is silver lining day, and we'll be indulging in one to make sure the day gets an additional boost. Most mornings I count it as a bane that one can smell said sticky buns from anywhere in the mall, and it constantly gets more difficult to resist the urge the longer I work here. Secretly I count this as the sole reason that seemingly every female worker in my mall is obese. Intellectually, I know this is not true, but everywhere I turn, all I see are fat women. Young, old, middle aged, it doesn't matter.
    Wow, the guy in front of me has a very red shirt on, which normally wouldn't be a big deal except that his hair has a slightly reddish tint to it which clashes horribly. I don't suppose that anyone has ever told him this, or  he wouldn't still be wearing said combination. Maybe it's not his real hair, or he is colorblind. I bet that's it. He doesn't know what color to dye his hair because he just can't see it, so it's really not his fault. See? It's silver lining day all around!
    “Damn you, milk!”
    So he is insane as well as color blind. I believe my spot in the line has shifted a step to the right, I really should go claim it. What kind of person condemns milk, anyway? “It's not like each and every one of those cows has personally wronged you.” Oh shit, he's turning around. Those sticky buns sure look nice...
    “Excuse me?”
    Excuse you, what? I haven't said anything to you, and you are clearly crazy, sending innocent cows to hell for no reason. I shall dub thee Sir Satan.
    “Ma'm, I didn't mean to offend you or any bovines you may be close to. I was simply stating my ire at spilling it on myself.”
    So you are crazy, colorblind, and clumsy. “That must be a great pickup line.”
    “What would be a great pickup line?”
    I have really got to stop doing that. One day it is really going to get me in trouble. “I'm sorry, I have this bad habit of speaking my thoughts out loud. How about we just forget this conversation ever happened?”
    He stands there for a long moment, and I can see his brain gears running behind his eyes. They are really, really green eyes, and those gears seem to be going pretty fast, so he has to be relatively intelligent. He has one of those beards that is trimmed short and neat and actually looks good on him. It accentuates his jaw. And now that I really can see, his hair is dirty blonde with a hint of red. Not bad on the eyes, but he is clumsy, crazy, and colorblind. I should really come up with something better than Sir Satan to include those 3 C detriments.
    “Deal.” He finally says and turns around. At least my day is untarnished and it's silver lining still in tact. And now that he has mentioned it, milk does sound rather good. It's never too early to start combating Osteoporosis, right? Definitely some milk then, but it should be in a coffee cup so I can sip it and pretend its coffee, but know it's really milk and pretend that I am five. A five year old sipping coffee is so taboo! This is going to be a good day. Oh, I'm next. Boy, that went by quickly.
    “Good morning miss Jane.”
    “Good morning, Amber. No sticky buns today, the oven ate them.” For a moment, I have a mental image of an oven ripping itself out of the wall and violently assaulting Miss Jane before I jump over the counter, pull out my sautering torch, and start slicing the oven into pieces.
    Wait! “No sticky buns?”
    “Afraid not. I'll save you one tomorrow though dear.” Miss Jane gives me a grandmother smile and a wink, the sun clearly still shining down on her world. Mine suddenly has erupted in a violent thunderstorm as my silver lining rips apart, spilling the contents of it's cloud onto my mood. Oddly enough, it looks a lot like “Milk!”
    People in line are staring, I'm soaked in metaphorical milk, and my day has just dissolved like a graham cracker in a tall, cold, lactose-rich glass.
    “Take back your minion, Satan, and be gone!” I don't even care if it was aloud at this point, cows be damned!       

Hunter
    Sometimes an event occurs that just leaves you speechless. This is a rarity for me, and truth be told I often end up saying entirely the wrong thing because I am not speechless enough. Most of the time speechless is caused by someone of the female race, or it used to anyway. I haven’t been on a date in the last 2 years, so all of my recent speechless moments have been entirely of my own doing.
    Today, at this very moment, I am speechless. The blame for this condition lies entirely on the shoulders of a customer of mine. One who clearly just stepped off the boat from Korea. That’s right, An immigration boat all the way from Korea made berth in the landlocked state of Kansas, disembarking this sad soul so that he could stumble into my store and leave me speechless.
    He has demanded to know why I have no white Tapout brand hoodies.
    Now, this may not seem like a big deal to you, but it is to me. How can you not speak a single word of English yet understand fashion in the United States? I was born and raised right here in the U S of A, and I don’t understand our fashion. Like those ridiculous Vibe polo shirts that sell out the instant I get them in. They make me glad that I am colorblind. They have to be so offensive to the normal eye. Maybe they were designed for the sole purpose of being irritating.
    Hes still there, waving his arms and shouting at me in Korean. Why can’t I speak Korean? Oh yeah, they don’t offer that particular language in public school. He points at me. This mother fucker actually just pointed at me! And hes glaring. Honestly, what do you expect me to do, fucknut? There are no child sweatshops hidden out back that I could just stroll into and have one made real fast. You are now in the United States.
    He stalks out, making it utterly clear that this was my personal insult to him. I would apologize, but firstly I don’t know the words and secondly I don’t give a flying fuck if I did insult him. Okay, I do a little bit, but the guy didn’t even speak English. That has to absolve me from the realm of normal insults.
    I don’t have Jake to contend with today, but something just as bad. Blondie. I call her blondie because her hair was bleached blonde when she started working for me. It is currently jet black. I get some interesting comments from people who hear me call her blondie with her clearly black hair, but most of them are half-hearted attempts at humor. The biggest thing about blondie is that she never shuts up. Ever. Her mouth motor is wired into a dozen Energizer Bunnies and never stops. This means that the days go by super fast. I mean, all I have to do is listen and I get a constant stream of entertainment all day long. The bad news is, well, she never shuts up. If she has decided that today she will call everyone a fatty, then I will hear about it all day long.
    “Hey Hunter! There is some guy here to see you. And we just sold our last pair of Retro 8’s in size 11. We have no more size 11 Retro 8’s, k? I just wanted to make sure you knew. Hi there, ma’m. Anything I can help you with today? We are having a sale on New Balance shoes here at the table…” See? I can’t complain about her sales performance, though. She can sell shoes to a parapalegic.
    As for the guy here to see me, that would be my brother bringing me lunch. I can’t leave the store unless two other people are present, and we usually have a staff of exactly two. Meaning I rarely get to leave for any reason. But my brother is nice enough and has the kind of time to bring me food. We aren’t particularly big guys, and we like to eat. A lot. Food was the dominant religion in our house growing up, and we worshipped our mother and her ability to cook.
    Sure enough, its Sparky with some chicken lo mein. This place in Aggieville makes the best lo mein for cheap, so its become a little pastime of ours.
    “Whats the story?” I ask him.
    “3 cupcakes, 2 drafts, and Morning Glory. Does Blondie have a boyfriend?” I hope she is still with her customer.
    “Yup. She’s dating some poor soul from the military recruiting store across the way.”
    “Bummer, she’s cute.” He’s staring between the cracks of the swinging door that separates our back room from the front, watching her sell an old lady a pair of insoles. I thought those things were a rip off until I started working here. They really do help your feet and lower legs, especially if you have knee problems.
    “You aren’t serious?” I know he is serious.
    “Just because you haven’t dated anyone since the Winterfest dance of ’99 doesn’t mean the rest of us have given up. Are you gay?” Totally deadpan, chopstick of lo mein pointing menacingly at me.
    “I guess you would know gay.” He’s not really gay. “You and Zippo have matching pink shirts and scarves yet?”
    “Kindling, chief. Kindling” I guess we’ll have a roaring fire this Christmas. Zippo, so named for his lighter collection of the same name, is also one of my good friends, but he and Sparky are inseparable, Sparky being my brother. I can’t claim credit for the pink shirt and scarf line, that was Sparky‘s current girl, who is really a superhero. I hope she stays around. More on her later. “I gotta run, man. 3 drafts due tomorrow and I only have 2 done.”
    “Thanks for all the fish. Anyone going to be at the house tonight?” We live together.
    “Zippo and Shoe, probably.” Meaning its Halo night.
    “”No Aqualita?” That's his superhero girlfriend. Again, more later.
    “Her too probably. Seriously, though. You need to find a girl. You are dangerously close to joining us in the pink shirt and scarf club, only for keeps. Later.”
    “Later.” I’ll find a girl. Eventually. If Blondie doesn’t drive me gay first. And honestly, the more time I spend in her company, the more I am jokingly debating it.
    “Hunter, I have a return for you!” Be right there, honey! God save me with a shower of pink scarves.
My brother dates Aqualita Splash. We call her this because she is a real life superhero. I’m serious. She has the power to conjure mixed drinks out of nowhere. And not little girly mixed drinks, either. Big manly mixed drinks. Drinks that New Orleans would be proud of. We’ve never figured out how she does it. She’s like the McGuyver of mixed drinks. Give her a refrigerator devoid of alchohol and she will have everyone drunk within the hour. Its magical, I swear. If you still aren’t convinced, she also has the other quality that most superheros possess. She is damn good looking. If the guy wasn’t my brother, I’d be jealous. But seeing as she is with my brother, she is now a persona non grata to me, which is a little disappointing, but not overtly so. It’s just one girl that is not available to me. There are literally millions of others out there.
    And did you know that there are at least two breasts for every woman alive today? This is entirely true. That’s a lot of available bre- I mean women.
    My afternoon passes quickly, which is both pleasant and expected. With Blondie around, there really isn’t a lot of choice in the matter. I’ve wondered what her eventual marriage will be like. It has the potential to be the fastest life in the history of the world. Its like the girl controls the aura of time or something. She’s at work, so time goes faster because she wills it so. I wonder if her parties last a really long time if they are good. Or does good sex go on forever? I should ask her. On second thought, maybe not. That might be more listening than I am capable of.
    Tomorrow, though. Now it’s time for me to head home and watch some Halo. If you have never actually taken the time to sit back and watch the game, you really should. Lots better than most movies, and it has the added bonus of infinite trash talking. As the watcher, I am often the nerd that dons the headset and talks throughout the game, if only to irritate he other players. I highly recommend this to anyone. Honestly, is there a better way to relieve the stresses of the day than to make some 11-year-old cry because he sucks at a video game?

Amber
    I need to find a better way to de-stress than running, mainly because it doesn’t relieve stress for me. When I have a problem I will go for a run and find that by the time my 3 miles are done I have the solution, or at least a good start. But it doesn’t work that way with stress. I get back from my little cardio workout and I still feel the same stresses as before. Maybe I should get a jacuzzi tub. It may not relieve stress, but damn would it feel good right about now.
    What I really need is Vic’s. And Sam.
    Vic’s is this little hole in the wall grease pit that serves the best bacon and stale toast this side of the Mississippi. The hash browns aren’t bad either. And after a day like today, I need some fat and grease to compliment the candy intake. Sam is actually Samantha, who is my best friend. If I were to ever have a daughter by some miracle, I would name her Sam or Ryan or Ben, something like that. Girls with guys names are by far the coolest women out there, and I’ve always been secretly upset that I had a regular old boring girls name. Amber. I’ve tried to tell myself that it’s the color of a tiger’s eye and I a great way to fossilize insects so it has to be a cool name. That doesn’t always work, though.
    I shoot Sam a text to see what she is up to and hop in the shower to clean off the dirt and sweat from my run. By the time I am dried off and have my hair in pigtails (it was a complete mess and not worth dealing with) she has informed me that her evening is completely booked solid with blocks of nothing, boredom, and staring off into space while drooling. I reply with our secret code for meeting a Vic’s.
    “[e-mail]
    Why we do this, I couldn’t tell you. It’s not as if the NSA is going to intercept on of our texts and send Homeland Security to arrest us. Sure, we’ve talked about some decidedly un-American things at Vic’s, but who hasn’t? It’s like the anarchy capitol of the world there. I would be seriously unsurprised to watch Osama himself stroll in, Dialysis machine and all, sit down, and order some bacon.
    With an hour to kill, I flop into my computer chair and pull up my favorite website: TVlinks. This site has almost rivaled Google on the list of things I cannot do without. And it gets bigger every day. Recently I’ve been watching all of the Batman animated series that I loved as a kid. It was cool when I was a kid, but as an adult it’s positively amazing. Before heading to the next Batman episode I check the front page for new additions and am rewarded with a treat. Some of the old animated Transformers cartoons have been added and are now available to the general populace as long as that populace is willing to wait the 5 minutes for a download. Now, call me a geek, but 5 minutes is a small price to pay for the original Optimus Prime.
    I check my email (completely empty) while waiting on my first episode to download. The next hour is spent blissfully lost in my childhood role models. A small part of my brain wonders where those heroes have gone to. Today’s youth have Spongebob, Stan, Kyle, and Cartman. I had Optimus, He-man, Captain Planet, and Doug. Although my generation did create Beavis and Butthead, while now they have John Stewart. Okay, Not nearly as bad as I thought. It still sickens me to think that the 5 year old of today looks up to Spongebob Squarepants.
    Did you notice that you can’t watch Loony Toons on cable television anymore? That’s right, no more Bugs Bunny or Wiley Coyote. It was too violent and racist to show young kids, not to mention all the cross dressing issues that old Bugs had. Oh no, keep the gay thoughts away from our children! Have you perchance watched anything on primetime television recently? Grey’s Anatomy? Nip/Tuck? Dexter? No sex or violence in any of those shows, no sir. Perfectly clean and wonderful entertainment.
    Comedy Central has got it right, in my humble opinion. John Stewart deserves his cult god status, South Park is the best television show running (and has the Emmy’s to prove it) and Stephen Colbert may be an arrogant asshole, but at least he’s not afraid to say what the average Joe won’t.
    See? I told you I was fun! We can mock-argue later, or even for keeps argue if you want, but I am currently late for my date with Sam and bacon.

Part 2 can be found here: "Texted - 2"