The Fat, Angry Man

Everyone says there's a voice in your head that serves as your conscience. Well, I've had lots of time to think about this, and I have my own psychological theory: Everybody has a tiny person in his (or her) head. Stay with me. Don't laugh. This "Tiny Person" talks to itself, which would explain the voices we hear, but it makes its own decisions. People are merely drones controlled by them.

And here's the shock of the century: my tiny person is broken.

✎✎✎

Five minutes after starting out, I arrived at the gas station. While I had been in a store without supervision before, I'd never gone into this particular one, normally fiddling around in the drug store across the street. But with all that sunshine and the smiling people in customer service? It's like a freaking cult. The dark shadow looming over this gas station seemed much more appropriate.

Now my parents wouldn't find me. Or Ed. Or anyone.

The doors were the types that opened by themselves. (Google says "automatic," but I don't think that's right.) I slipped my foot in front of the glass a first, second, and third time before swishing inside the interior. The doors submitted to my will and sealed behind me.

A lot of times, people assume kids with disorders have these hidden superpowers, elevating their intelligence to a supreme level. They think troubled kids have God-tier powers. Like aliens. Or mutants. Or talking dogs.

That is not my case.

I found my way around, touching random items to feel how cold they were. My steps were slow-motion. It was like my tiny person was on vacation, while my mouth parched for…what was I in here for again?

Right. Water.

My feet skidded right past the "Caution: Floors are Slippery" sign when I spotted the cornered section buried in plastic bottles of dihydrogen-monoxide. I grabbed the cheapest one with a secure lid and no dents and proceeded to the checkout.

A man stood behind the counter.

To describe him in short? He was fat, hairy, and angry.

To describe him in long? Round in his stomach, his face was too big for his neck. Dark, strangled hair dangled from his chin like a drawing straight out of a game of hangman. His head was a buzzcut. Strangest of all his qualities? More of his eyebrow was above his nose than his eyes.

Minutes ticked before I registered that the man worked here, he was waiting for me to put my item on the counter, and we were the only people inside the store.

"Um…here," I said.

My eyes were nowhere near his face as I dropped my precious bottle of water next to the greasy register.

"That'll be three-fifty, Kid."

Leaping from his lounge chair, Tiny Person picked shards of danger out of the man's voice like a smoke detector. If I were a normal person, I would have known: the shorter our interaction, the better. However, I am not a normal person. Like a not-so-normal person, I glanced at the price tag and crinkled my face at the water, taking the bold risk of looking the gorilla right below the eyes.

"The…sign…over there. Said two-fifty. Not three."

"The tag's wrong. Three fifty, or you can go drink from the fountain over there."

He gestured to a pitiful device by the place where people leave their body waste.

Just letting you know? Water fountains are disgusting. You could toss me in the hot Saharan Desert with years of torment via the cacti. Offer me a sip from a fountain, I'd choose death.

"I'd rather buy water," I said.

"Three-fifty."

He could have been mistaken for…I don't know what. Something you don't mess with that kills little cuddly animals. He crossed his bulged and fatty arms. I could tell because that's where I was looking. "Well? Cough it up, Kid."

"I'm seventeen. I'm not a kid."

He scanned me. I'm not a tiny kid. I'm the Leaning Tower of Pisa, but I guess I don't have that "seventeen-year-old" aura.

"Seventeen or not, Kid, it's three-fifty."

I was about to throw him my pocket change and make a run for it. For a moment, I didn't care what this guy's problem was. I didn't care that he kept calling me "kid" like it was an insult.

Then the fat man picked up a metal can and drank from it.

I'd seen a can like that before.

As I have said, I need you to stop reading. Fear hasn't worked, so I will now try annoyance at the misuse of our language. To implement an over-used cliché, I released a breath I didn't know I was holding.

I was twelve. Against all logical protests from our parents, my brother, Kyle, had taken me out for a guy's night. We'd decided to go to the bowling alley, and after he threw ten straight gutter balls, he chucked on his retirement cap. (I won't tell you how I did. Live with it.)

We were headed back to his car.

Laughter bounced off the walls of an alley, voices I knew I'd heard at my own house before.

"Hey, Kyle!"

Kids from his class. Either they hadn't seen me or didn't care that I was there.

My brother walked over. I followed behind. The alley boys started laughing and hooting like a pack of hyenas. They'd been holding cans like this. A lot of cans. Empty cans had been scattered across the ground.

A tattooed boy tried to give Kyle one.

There were words, one of them said to me. I want to say they called us dinglehoppers.

Kyle malleted my hand into his and took off. I dangled behind as he shoved me in the passenger's seat.

"What's…" I glanced back. "What's going on?"

"It's fine, Ben. Just stay here."

Kyle dialed a number as he slammed the door, marching back to the alley. That moment he'd disappeared, when shadows flicked distantly across the window, felt like those long minutes of watching trailers before the big picture. But it wasn't a movie I wanted to see. When Kyle reappeared and stuck the key in the ignition, he whispered over the skidded chugs of the car engine, "Our secret, alright?"

Secrets. Kyle liked secrets a lot.

When I didn't answer, my brother continued to complain about his bowling score compared to my two-fifty. I kept glancing over my shoulder, trying to catch glances of the alley. Piece together the boys and the beer and Kyle. To understand this special secret I was supposed to keep. But Kyle said to forget about it. So, I did my best.

We got home, and then we ordered a pizza and sat on the roof…but I guess that's another story.

Flashbacks stink. There's always reality to return to.

"Kid, pay me and leave."

"That drink." I pointed to the can of beer. "It's not good for you."

He rolled his eyes. "You sound like my mother."

"But…isn't that…"

"Coke."

My eyes were wide enough to pop out of their sockets.

He smirked. "As in soda, Kid. Now, three-fifty."

Oh.

So, I freaked for nothing. I should have left in shame and embarrassment. I should have placed my money in his palm. But, you know, I had to say something else about this man's life choices.

"Everyone says soda's bad too."

"Why's that?"

I frowned. "Because it makes you fat."

Really? my tiny person demanded. Great, let's just see what happens now.

"That's it!" He stood up to reveal his true figure, and I realized too late that I needed to get my mental muscle-to-fat ratio interpreter fixed. Muscles bulged out of him. I was surprised his shirt didn't tear open.

"What's it?" I asked.

"GET OUT!"

"Why?"

"You're blacklisted," the muscle man said. "No sales. Get out!"

He was really going mental. So was I.

"You can't do that. I'm thirsty."

"Listen, kid. I have rights. I can refuse service to whoever the hilt I want. Now. Get. Out!"

I took a step back. Stuttering back would be a better way to put it.

"Now!"

"Okay," I said.

My hand found its way into my left pocket. The man towered over me. Tiny Person told me my face would soon be a human punching bag.

"What are you still doing here?"

I checked my other pocket. "I'm…just…"

"You're what? Get out of here! Now! I'll call the cops!"

"Okay."

"Out!"

My blood pulsed in my ears. "Okay."

The man waited. Phone in hand. The dial pad up.

My hand found what it was looking for. Three dollars. And fifty cents. I dropped the money on the long flat-topped fixture.

Tiny Person's laughter was maniacal.

Nice try.

The man sighed. His blood pressure went down a few trophic levels. Then he eyed the money on the counter and his lip pointed further towards his chin. "Even if I was going to sell you this, which I'm not, you're a nickel short."

I counted the money on the counter. He was right.

But my chest sprung back up as Tiny Person smirked. I played the only card I had. "But the sign said two-fifty. So, technically, I'm overpaying you by ninety-five cents."

"Just go to the drug store across the street," he said.

Alright, listen up. There's one thing you need to understand about me. I'm stubborn. Like a pain the rear, to quote Kyle censored. But I waste this energy on useless pursuits. For example, with what I was about to do.

"I have money at home. I can pay you the rest later." I pushed the money towards the worker.

"Sure," he grunted. "Just leave the bottle."

I did not leave the bottle. I grabbed the bottle.

"It's five cents!"

The giant bags beneath his eyes twitched. "Yeah, five cents that you don't have. Get out."

"Fine."

A smile spread across my face; I clenched the bottle further into my grip. Then I bolted out the door and ran like my life depended on it.

It did.