She parked her bike behind the payphone I was guarding.
The bike was an old cruiser style. Not the new trendy kind, an antique complete with a basket in front. That made sense because we were in front of a grocery store.
She said, “Hi.”
“Watch that for me.”
She was 5'1'', knee skirt, knee socks, plastic shoes, flower shirt, 50ish.
She walked into the store, and I protected my payphone. My cell was dead of course. And my wife had the charger with her. Radio Shack, the only electronics store in the town where my moving van blew a tire, didn't open for another hour. Therefore, I kept a vigil over my payphone.
One guy did stop to use it, so I circled him like a shark. That didn't hurry him at all. It probably made him talk more.
She walked out of the store with just one paper bag. I was surprised grocery stores still had paper bags. She stood next to me and stared out at the parking lot.
She opened her bag, unscrewed a cap and gulped a little of her 40. Looked like I had some company while waiting for my phone call.
“You ain't from around here,” she said, giving me the the once over.
“Nope.” I looked down at my khaki shorts and sandals. I was on my way to the beach when the tire blew.
She looked back out to the parking lot and took another swig. “I could slit your throat right now and there is nothing you could do about it.” Another swig.
A car drove by with a well-dressed couple inside.
“Oh hey!” She waved like any good psycho killer feigning innocence.
The couple parked and walked briskly to the supermarket door.
“Hey!” she repeated much louder.
“Hi, Geraldine,” the lady said. “Missed you in church this morning.”
She goes to church in between throat cuttings?
“Yeah. I couldn't get a ride.”
The couple continued walking briskly toward door.
“Can you give me a ride home?”
“We'll see when we come out,” the lady said disappearing into store. The doors slid closed.
Geraldine took another swig. “I never liked that @#$%.”