Comets and Crazies

Her shift was supposed to end an hour ago. The manager stepped out to run to the bank. The girl that was supposed to relieve her hasn't shown up yet, that selfish bitch. It was already starting to get dark out; the automatic lights in the parking lot clicked on. There was all sorts of things that needed doing: neaten the shelves, vaccuum the mat by the door, total the morning receipts. Like hell she was going to do any of that. She was supposed to be home an hour ago.

Wendy has worked at Shoes 'N More since high school. She's been here for like six years, going full time after college. She's paid more than some of the assistant managers and could run this whole store in her sleep. It was a super slow day and the past few hours have been totally dead. She wouldn't mind the delay if things were busier. She wouldn't mind so much if she had someone to complain to.

The door gives an electric chime as a man struts inside. He seems out of place. Not many men bother coming in here, the aesthetics are geared toward a feminine demographic. This man, however, would likely seem out of place anywhere outside a forest. He wears tight black bike shorts and a stained, faded green shirt under a red flannel. There might have been some kind of logo or picture on the shirt once, but the design has long since worn away. His hair is a tangled grey bird's nest poking out from under a greasy black beret. His needs, however, seem immediate and obvious. He is barefoot.

Wendy watches him with interest. If she wasn't so bored she would've otherwise headed right over and asked him to leave. Crazies sometimes wander in and scare away customers. Shoes 'N More had a few notoriously regular crazies. There's one woman always wearing track suits who comes in once a week or so and, if left unattended, will try to pee herself next to the same spinning display rack of shoes. It never seems to matter which shoes are displayed or where exactly in the store the rack spins. She hunts it down with a single minded focus unless Wendy shouts and claps and shoos her out. This guy is not a regular. He's a new crazy. Well, maybe he's not crazy. Wendy hasn't talked to him yet, he might just be eccentric, or maybe his house just burned down and he didn't save any of his clothes.

The man swings by a shelf, grabs a pair of black loafers without really looking and marches straight up to the counter. He moves with a kind of assured confidence. He could be a Howard Hughes secret billionaire or some loon that builds tiny architectural replicas out of mouse bones and ear wax. 'No wait,' Wendy thinks to herself, 'I don't know if he's crazy or anything yet. Don't be judgemental,'

He slaps the shoes on the counter with a pleased, wild-eyed grin. "I would like these shoes,"

Wendy doesn't remember stocking those. They don't really carry men's shoes. They don't carry children's shoes either. They don't really carry a decent selection of women's shoes, for that matter. The name of the store is very misleading. Shoes 'N More should really be called Some Shoes 'N That's It.

But she just smiles and points the lasery-price-gun at the tag and BEEP. The computer finds a price and displays it on the readout.

"Feet are important sorts of things, you know," he beams at her.

She just smiles and nods.

"You know, some people believe that parts of the foot connect to the rest of the body in special ways," his eyes seem to twinkle.

Ah jesus, he is a crazy. Wendy turns a little green and just hopes that this guy wanders out and away just as quickly as he came in.

"I've even heard there is a place on the foot that, at a touch, can stop a heart!" his voice takes on a theatrical tone, dipping conspiratorial low, then pitching up to a friendly crescendo.

Wendy smiles and gestures to the price readout, "Yep, well... thirty bucks," she paints a forced smile on her face before adding, "for the shoes..."

The crazy continues undaunted, "That seems kind of silly to me though. People walk on their feet all day. If there was a spot that killed you, people would drop dead all the time,"

"Well people do drop dead all the time," Wendy replies without thinking, really. It all falls out of her mouth and she immediately regrets it. If the crazy thought she was a friend, he might never leave.

Instead, he stares at her in surprised awe, "They do, don't they," He takes a full minute to process this idea. It shakes him terribly.

The door chimes again as Sara jogs in. She's wearing some hoodie with her work shirt bundled under her arm. She mouthes an "I'm sorry," to Wendy with a guilty look. It's all an act, though. She's just fucking lazy and always late and now she's going to go in the back and try to stall until the crazy leaves.

"Right," Wendy now wants this guy to vanish more than ever, "So the shoes will be thirty bucks. Then you won't have to worry about the heart attack spot,"

"Hmm?" the crazy is deep in thought.

"On your foot," she tries to explain his own craziness back to him, "the death spot thing,"

"So here's the thing," he explains, "I don't have any money,"

Wendy just raises her eyebrows in a 'So what the fuck now' kind of look.

"But I'll tell you what. I can grant wishes on special occassions," he states in all seriousness, "and you are a very special sort of person,"

Wendy simply stands there.

"And so, if you give me these shoes, I will grant you one wish,"

"A wish,"

"The next wish you make will come true. A wish in your heart," he smiles.

Wow. Wendy just can't believe this guy. He is a good and proper crazy. He likely has a fine collection of tin foil helmets to block out the alien mind control lasers. She looks again at her watch. She looks at the back door, Sara is totally taking forever. She looks at the parking lot, the manager is still at the bank. And she is stuck here with this crazy motherfucker untill...

Wendy blinks. You know what?

"Sure," she smiles along with him, "that'll do nicely. One wish," she punches her code into the machine. The thirty bucks will come out of her paycheck. With the overtime she's racked up today, it shouldn't hurt at all.

He beams at her and picks up the shoes, "Now remember, it is a secret wish of the heart. You can't tell anyone of the wish or that you've wished at all. That's how this kind of thing works,"

"Great, well I only want the one wish," she adds, "so no more shoes unless you bring money,"

"Of course, of course. I can only grant wishes on special occasions," he reminds her.

"Right, got it," she nods, humoring him, "Of course,"

Without another word, he takes the shoes and skips off out the store. The electric chirp of the door chime marks his passing.

Lo and behold, Sara pops out of the back room as soon as the crazy leaves.

"Oh my god, I'm so sorry, Wendy," she begins her prepared excuse.

"Don't worry about it," Wendy had a whole diatribe she was going to use. Earlier, she wanted to lay into this bitch and tell her off. Now, though, she just pulls off her nametag and heads for the door.

Wendy shares a little apartment with a roomate. Everything is pretty cramped, but he lives his whole life on the computer, and she works all the time, so they get along rather well. He's a bad slob, but keeps all his trash in his own room. She watches TV and likes to cook for herself. She brings boys over every now and then and he never seems to mind. The boys don't often stick around long. They never seem to take Wendy seriously. They like her well enough to try to get in her pants, but not much more. She must be the kind of person that boys just don't think about.

She gets home that evening with a little chicken wrap she picked up on the way. She nibbles on it, her heart's not really into it. She's thinking about that crazy man and the wish. She kicks off her shoes and curls up on the couch. She is too tired to change out of her work clothes. She is too tired to hunt for the remote.

She used to believe in wishes when she was little. She looked for falling stars at night. She hoarded pennies for fountains. She had a very special prayer that she would try to say every night. Someone told her once that St. Joseph could grant wishes. If you wanted and wished for something hard enough, and prayed to him every night for thirty nights in a row, he would help. Wendy never made it past nine or ten nights without forgetting. What was she always wishing for? It's hard to remember. Love maybe, or money. Perhaps something silly like a pony or a castle.

She can just make out a flicker of blue light under her roomate's bedroom door. That's how she knows he's home, a computer flickering in a dark, silent room. He'll blast music on his headphones and chew away on a pizza, leaving reluctantly only for bathroom breaks and cans of soda. Oh jesus, her feet stink. Wendy rolls around on the couch, burying her face into a throw pillow. Too tired to change her socks.

And so now, what does she want? More money? Maybe a real job? She went through all the trouble of getting a journalism degree without really thinking why. Love? What would that even look like these days? Everyone's so independant, how can anyone really love anything?

What then can she do with a wish? Perhaps nothing, or more specifically, a want for nothing. Is that legal? Can someone wish to wish that wish away? To become someone who would wish for nothing?

Her laptop is nearby, she clacks a few keys on her iTunes and Ben Folds bangs away on his piano. He sings about people in trees and beautifully weird girls and picking up all the pieces of a broken life. Wendy drifts off to sleep, dreaming about comets and fountains and greasy black berets.