It's a world of strife and change, of connection and classification. The Cashier, by no means of her own, has developed--through acceptance of a handful of parameters established by unseen institutions--a myopic vision of reality in which greater value is attributed to reality television than, say, the reality of her own mortality.
I can't make a call from up here, she says, shaking her cell phone. I've got no bars, y'all.
The caretakers heave the Carver's body into the pit.
How I gonna know who won Dance Dance Dance: Dance Party Dance-Off? Because you know I voted for Luaman.
The Cellist arrives.
You, says the Cashier, pointing. The Cellist looks behind her. You, says the Cashier. Who won Dance Dance Dance: Dance Party Dance-Off?
The Cellist informs her that Luaman won the contest.
The Cashier squeals with delight. Ooh, Brandi's gonna be so pissed, ya'll. She voted for Lo'train.
Oh, I think Lowanan would beat Lo'train any day, says the Cellist.
That's I what said, girl!
Thus a bond is formed between these women based almost entirely on the gyrations of several competing, meretricious personalities in an hermetically sealed, well-lit enclosure two thousand miles away.
They raise their guns. Their guns go off.
Showing posts with label cashier. Show all posts
Showing posts with label cashier. Show all posts
Monday, April 21, 2008
Sunday, April 20, 2008
Carver v. Cashier
If the Cartographer's goal was to create a true-to-scale map of Dayton, Ohio, the Carver's goal is to maintain as steady an existence as possible. An existence without undue worry or strife or anxiety.
He's not much of one for duels. Or settling labor disputes.
That's our ring, says Pepple.
The Carver, white chef's coat unbuttoned, looks around anxiously. I'm probably not the best person to talk to about this, he says.
You're the man, says Grubb, we wanna talk to. You're a duelist.
Yeah, but not by choice, says the Carver. I just got a job at the hotel over there and then I got this telegram that - well, here - look.
The Carver takes a telegram from his pocket and hands it to Grubb. Grubb looks at it, confused, abashed, then hands it off to Pepple. Pepple reads it aloud for Grubb:
PRESENCE MANDATORY TOMORROW STOP ADDRESS PROVIDED ON REVERSE STOP HONOR MUST BE SATISFIED END
Pepple hands the telegraph back to the Carver.
Listen here, says Pepple, it explicitly states in that contract that any and all possessions found on the body of the dead are ours to keep. And that ring was on the finger of that guy what got killed. Therefore by deductive logic I just proven that that ring belongs to us.
I don't know. I just don't know, says the Carver, fingering the ring. He'd taken it off right after the duel, per the Cartographer's instructions.
Grubb speaks up. I can get you a nice little plot huh?
Who says I'm going to die?
Pepple and Grubb look at each other. The both laugh.
Jesus, fine--just take the goddamn thing! says the Carver. He slams it down into Grubb's dirty outstretched hand. Pepple and Grubb sneer, and return to their hideous shack.
The Cashier arrives. She chews gum loudly. They greet each other.
You from the hotel up near the mine? she asks. The Carver does.
Yeah, my baby's daddy work in the boiler room. Name's Chester. You heard of him?
The Carver has not heard of a Chester.
They say it closed, but y'all know it ain't. They got high class people what go there.
It's true. I served the Vice President last week, says the Carver. He asked for a slice, extra rare.
They raise their guns. Their guns go off.
He's not much of one for duels. Or settling labor disputes.
That's our ring, says Pepple.
The Carver, white chef's coat unbuttoned, looks around anxiously. I'm probably not the best person to talk to about this, he says.
You're the man, says Grubb, we wanna talk to. You're a duelist.
Yeah, but not by choice, says the Carver. I just got a job at the hotel over there and then I got this telegram that - well, here - look.
The Carver takes a telegram from his pocket and hands it to Grubb. Grubb looks at it, confused, abashed, then hands it off to Pepple. Pepple reads it aloud for Grubb:
PRESENCE MANDATORY TOMORROW STOP ADDRESS PROVIDED ON REVERSE STOP HONOR MUST BE SATISFIED END
Pepple hands the telegraph back to the Carver.
Listen here, says Pepple, it explicitly states in that contract that any and all possessions found on the body of the dead are ours to keep. And that ring was on the finger of that guy what got killed. Therefore by deductive logic I just proven that that ring belongs to us.
I don't know. I just don't know, says the Carver, fingering the ring. He'd taken it off right after the duel, per the Cartographer's instructions.
Grubb speaks up. I can get you a nice little plot huh?
Who says I'm going to die?
Pepple and Grubb look at each other. The both laugh.
Jesus, fine--just take the goddamn thing! says the Carver. He slams it down into Grubb's dirty outstretched hand. Pepple and Grubb sneer, and return to their hideous shack.
The Cashier arrives. She chews gum loudly. They greet each other.
You from the hotel up near the mine? she asks. The Carver does.
Yeah, my baby's daddy work in the boiler room. Name's Chester. You heard of him?
The Carver has not heard of a Chester.
They say it closed, but y'all know it ain't. They got high class people what go there.
It's true. I served the Vice President last week, says the Carver. He asked for a slice, extra rare.
They raise their guns. Their guns go off.
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