Thank You, Have A Nice Day!

The automatic doors slid open and Mara entered the Piggly Wiggly with bored enthusiasm. She could smell the fake cold air and the latest creation from the bakery. Mara looked around for the manager untill she found him. There was Darren, the store manager, complete with clip-on tie, glasses, and nervously clutching his clipboard.
"You the manager?" Mara asked. The man jumped. He began to fiddle with his glasses as he scrambled for an answer. His intimidated reaction to her presence told Mara that a job was hers for the taking.

Mara began working a night shift stocking shelves. It was mind-numbing work, but it wasn't a bad set-up. People mostly left her alone, unless they could not find the green beans. Her favorite time of the night was when they began making the closing announcements. It was, to her, the alarm for almost quitting time. In the last hour Mara stopped stocking and helped bagging. After a couple of weeks of this Mara became friends with a cashier named Roger. Roger was a high school senior who didn't ask too many questions. This is why Mara liked him so much.

"Attention shoppers the time is now 11:30. Our registers will be closing in 30 minutes. We will re-open tomorrow at 7. Thank you and have a nice night."

Mara sat on the counter behind Roger as he was ringing up one of the last customers.
"You know, you could, I don't know, do your job. Maybe put some of this stuff in the bags."
"Aw, thanks Roger, but I'm good right here," Mara replied with mock appreciation and went back to filing her nails. Another dry announcement came over the speakers. "God. Nancy makes nails scraping a chalkboard sound like Mozart."
"I know. You'd think she's never seen Empire Records," Roger replied in serious disbelief. Mara had to laugh.

Where as Mara listened to music; Roger watched movies. He was constantly talking about movies and making references to them. Even when Roger was not watching movies, he was living in one. This is probably why he did not ask too many questions. Mara was his John Bender. The mysterious, bad-girl with a shady past. Mara didn't have a shady past, nor was she necessarily bad. All he knew was that Mara left home early and now she worked at the Piggly Wiggly in Happy Valley. Mara had no plans of shattering the character she played in his head so she continued to be vague about her life and a little outlandish at times.

"Well, what do you say we have a little fun?" Mara said with a devilish smile.
"Mara, no. Whatever you're thinking, no. Darren may be afraid of you, but he's not afraid to fire me."
"Oh, stuff it. Darren's off. No one else is here," Mara said as she grabbed his wrist. "Come on." She dragged him behind the customer service desk and handed him the mic. "Lay some funny on the vanilla people of Happy Valley."
"No way dude. You're the one with the 'flavor'," Roger said.
"You did not put 'flavor' in air quotes."
Roger just looked down in slight embarrassment.
"Fine," Mara snapped up from behind the counter, "Alllllright you late night shoppers. It's 11:45 meaning the veggies are wilted and so are your cashiers. Please make your finals selections and give us your money so we can go home. As always, thanks for choosing your local Piggly Wiggly. The only grocery store in town."

Mara plopped back down next to Roger and they both started laughing hysterically. "That was fun," Mara said.
"You sounded like a retard. I thought you were going to be funny," Roger teased.
"As long as I don't have to sound like an idiot," said a voice from over the counter. They looked up to see Nancy looking down at them. "Mara, you do the nightly announcements from now on. I hate it."

For the next couple of nights Mara gave the nightly announcements. She was comfortable speaking over the intercom. The only difficult part was avoiding being offensive or rude. Sometimes Mara would make the announcements like a TV new reporter and throw in a silly headline. A couple of nights she even rapped. As time went on, Mara almost had a following. If you can call a couplle high school kids hanging around to hear her announcements a following. Mara was still just making sandwiches, but now she was throwing a pickle on the side.

One night Mara noticed a new face to her "crowd." He stuck out because he was an older gentleman. He stuck out even more because he looked almost hip. A man Mara might see in a big city, but was surprised to see in her new, small town. After her first two announcements he approached her, "I'm Marcus Black. I like your style kid." Mara was forced to ignore the compliment at the word "kid." He continued, "Tell me, you listen to much music?" She nodded. Mara was still displeased about being called a kid. Mr. Black laughed and went on, "Look, I just bought one of the local radio stations just outside of town. I need someone to cover the late hours. Think you'de be interested?" Mara was absolutely shocked. Not many people could throw her for a loop like Marcus Black just had. She had never thought of radio before. In all honesty Mara hated the radio. Too many commercials, inane conversation, stuipd giveaways, and terrible music they played 20 times in a day.
"What's the catch?" she asked.
"No catch. Just a job. Why don't you meet me at the Buddy's down the street tomorrow and we'll talk?"

That night Mara stayed awake thinking about this strange man's offer. They had talked a bit more and he seemed legit. The more she thought about it, the more it kind of made sense. Mara was quiet, but not because she didn't like to talk. She didn't like to listen. If she had her own show that was several hours of talking without having to pretend to listen to anyone else. She would also get to play whatever she liked since it was a late night show. Mara could finally introduce the world to so many great bands. Well, the world of Happy Valley that is. The more she thought about it, the more excited she got at the prospect of it. Then Mara remember the one big reason not too. She made sandwiches and put a pickle on the side. This man was asking her to make chicken parmesian. And Mara didn't know the first thing about making chicken parmesian. It would only end in disaster.

Mara fell asleep to a voice running thorugh her head, "You're listening to 96.7 WKEL with Mara Massey. This is Damn The Man Radio."


((I know it took forever to get the second part out, but i promise part three, the conclusion, won't be far behind. I hope.))

Welcome to Happy Valley Mara

((I'm pulling a Dickens, Charles that is, and writting this in "chapters." He also go paid by the letter. Too bad i can pull off that part too.))

Near the back of the bus she sat staring out the window into the deep blackness and her own reflection. She wondered if she’d even be able to see anything if the fluorescent lights weren’t on. It wasn’t all that late; there was just that little outside. Mara got tired of trying to stare past herself so she lit her cigarette and exhaled the first puff at the “No Smoking” sign on the door in front of her. Not that it mattered to her, but there was no one else on the bus other than her and the driver.

When Mara boarded the bus he greeted her warmly in that instantly friendly way that she hated. You can’t act like someone’s friend without even knowing them, was always her thought. She simply gave him a bored look and he seemed to get the message. As she turned, Mara noticed the driver shaking his head with a look that said, “Same old story.”

“You in some kind of trouble?”

“What?” Mara replied.

“You’re runnin’ from something aint you? I figured you must be in some sort of trouble the way you break the rules like they aint there at all.”

This observation wasn’t new to Mara. It was true, she was a rule breaker. And if actions spoke louder than words her attitude was yelling, “Back off!”

“Well, what is it?”

“What is what?” Mara answered with obvious annoyance in her voice. Normally she would just tune out and ignore him, but something about this bus driver’s presence made her respond. Most people left her alone once they realized she was less than agreeable. For some reason this driver spoke like he already knew her and wasn’t putting up with her crap. Mara almost liked the fact that he was standing up to her. At the same time, it made her fight back a little more.

“What is it you runnin’ from?”

“I’m not running,” she lied. She didn’t like that he seemed to know so much about her already. And wasn’t afraid to say something either. “I’m just drawn to Happy Valley for it’s politics and great antique stores,” she added sarcastically.

He merely responded with that same look from before as he shook his head. Mara was relieved when he gave up. There was still an hour left till they arrived in Happy Valley and she couldn’t possibly stand having a conversation that long. So instead Mara sat and tried to think of nothing. Thinking about the future was a bad option; especially when she thought about the present.

Mara Massey was a 17 year old runaway fresh out of high school. She was an average student with no plans of attending college. She wasn’t athletic or talented. To the world, she was going nowhere. Mara saw herself as destined to be a sandwich maker. She was ok with that as long as people weren’t expecting more than a sandwich. At least, this is what Mara told herself. Really she had no dreams or aspirations, but still this feeling that she was supposed to do something. Something more than making sandwiches, that is. This feeling frustrated her more than people who claimed to be fans of Orange Street Circus without knowing their 4 album names and the album they recorded under a different band name.

Mara was no music guru. She didn’t play an instrument and was never in a band. And she never took a class on music, but boy did she listen to it. Constantly searching for new artists and memorizing band members, song names, album titles, and even years songs were released. You could call it her only passion, though it was hardly a passion. It was just something to pass the time.

The bus started to slow and Mara looked up to notice street lights. Finally, she had arrived in her nowhere town to be no one. It came to a halt and Mara grabbed her bags and trudged up the aisle. While heading to the door she realized she no longer knew what she wanted. Part of her couldn’t wait to get off the musty old bus and away from the driver who knew too much. Yet, all of a sudden Mara wasn’t so sure of what she was doing. Despite her new found inner turmoil she reached the door and began down the steps.

“Welcome to the start of the rest of your life,” Said the bus driver as he closed the door and pulled away. Mara was left standing under the streetlight at the bus stop with his words tumbling around in her already jumbled mind.

Welcome to the start of the rest of your life, she thought as she picked up her bags and headed to the flashing motel sign. The rest of your life…

Play Date

“Are we going in?”

“There’s something about my parents I think you need to know.”

Kristi, who already had one leg out of the car, pulled it back in. She sat and waited for Sean to explain himself. He was never one for theatrics. She rarely saw him without a smile on his face. Something was obviously bothering him. His lips were moving, too subtly and randomly to be forming any words, but they were obviously rehearsing something.

She waited. She played with the hem of her skirt. She checked her make-up in the mirror. She checked her hair. She adjusted her shirt, twisting it just to the left.

“My parents think I’m gay.” Sean finally blurted.

Kristi sputtered laughter. “What?!” She cackled. “Why would they think that?”

“I told them I was.”

Kristi howled with laughter. “Why?”

“I was trying to make a point,” said Sean’s brown eyes were smiling, even if his lips weren’t.

“And you’ve never corrected them.” Kristi turned in her seat to better face Sean.

“It never quite seemed like the right time.” Sean had to laugh at that.

“How long have they thought you’re gay?” Kristi’s green eyes twinkled with awe.

“January.” Sean said sheepishly. “I didn’t mean to tell them. I didn’t wake up that morning and say, ‘I’m going to fake coming out of the closet today.’ They were just railing on about same sex marriage and how another state was putting it to a vote and how they wished the president – or whoever has the power to do so – would just step in illegalize it. And I was like, ‘I don’t know how you can say that. I don’t know how protestant Christians can be at all comfortable relinquishing religious ceremonies to any government! It doesn’t make any sense to me! Do you really want the government deciding who can and can’t get married? What’s next? Who can and can’t get baptized?’ It’s the same thing, except we’ve attached these tax breaks and these legal matters to marriage.” Sean shook his head.

“And then my dad’s like, ‘why do you care?’ And my mom’s like, ‘it’s not like it effects you.’ And I shot back, ‘it does effect me!’ ‘How,’ my mom said, ‘you’re not gay!’” Sean locked eyes with Kristi. “’Yes I am!’ I shouted back.”

Sean scratched at his black goatee. “You should’ve been there. Stunned silence. I had to repeat myself. They didn’t believe me, but I had said it at that point, I didn’t want them thinking I was a liar.”

Kristi raked her fingers through her shoulder-length blond hair. Was she nervous? Excited? She wasn’t sure, so she laughed. Sean heard her uncertainty.

“They live here in Happy Valley and pass judgment on the rest of the world. Nothing effects them here. They live in this little bubble! And they’re scared of everything! Democrats, blacks, gays, Mexicans, Muslims or anyone that looks like they could possibly be from 'that area' of the world,' freaking Hollywood! They get so worked up over subjects and topics that will not ever effect them. Why? Because they shield themselves. If two gay men can get married, how will it affect them? Other than giving them something else to complain about as they slip into senility, it won’t. Why? Because they don’t even know any gays. But it goes against their sensitive ideals so . . .” Sean took a deep breath. “So I thought I’d put a face on it.”

“To challenge their worldview.” Kristi understood.

“To challenge their worldview.” Sean nodded.

“Do you have any gay friends?”

Sean shook his head. “Not that I know of.”

“Then why?”

Sean shrugged. “I hate closed-minded idiots. And I like freedom. And in order for me to have freedom, everyone else has to have freedom too. And if God gave us the freedom of choice, then who are we to take that away from somebody else?”

The right side of Kristi’s mouth tugged into a grin. “Then who can I be?”

Sean knew the answer immediately. “A feminist! And if you could work in something about a woman’s right to choose . . .”

“But what about us?” Kristi asked. “What’s our relationship?”

“I think we’re in love with the same man.” Sean said simply.

“Oh,” said Kristi with a sarcastic pout, “I thought we were going to be acting.”

She pressed her lips into Sean’s and then bounded out of the car. Sean wasn’t going to say it, but the thought occurred to him that this might be love.

Back to Work

“What’s going on with One?”

Ainsley switched hands as she poured a sweet tea so she could get a better look. Sitting at Table One was a young family. They were bored and anxious. The mother was trying to entertain her little boy with cubes of ice she had fished out of her cup with her straw. The father was shuffling a stack of menus as he kept glancing over his shoulder, hoping to see their server return.

Ainsley shook her head. “I dunno. Who’s table is it?”

“The new girl,” Teresa said, putting her hands on her hips. She scratched her forehead as she tried to remember the new girl’s name. “Jessica.”

Ainsley scanned the small diner. Jessica, of the black and pink color scheme, was nowhere to be seen.

“I’ll go take care of Table One.” Teresa sighed, loosening her apron. “They’re going to want to be seeing a manager anyway. You go find Jessica.” Teresa slammed her apron onto the counter top.

“Drop this off at Four, would you?” Ainsley handed the sweet tea to Teresa. “Thanks,” she said before Teresa could object.

“Ainsley?” Teresa called before Ainsley could even take a step.

Ainsley turned back to her, her eyebrows up, asking “what?”

“Where do you get your hair done? I love that haircut of yours.”

Ainsley smiled appreciatively and a little self-consciously as she tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. Teresa was lying. It was a lie Ainsley appreciated, but it was a lie. Teresa was such a good liar, the way she shook her head and marveled over Ainsley's hair, that Ainsley began to wonder if she was sincere.

Whatever it was, Ainsley didn’t have time for it. It was only half way through the lunch hour, all of her tables were full, a line was forming at the door and a waitress was missing. She feigned embarrassment and turned away, doing her best to walk a jog.

Table Four looked at her with wide eyes that asked, “where’s my tea?” Ainsley smiled, didn’t break her stride, and pointed over her shoulder, to Teresa. Table Five had just been delivered their two orders of pasta primavera. They would be needing drink refills and an extra basket of breadsticks in the next few minutes. Table Six sat eagerly awaiting her arrival. She wished she could ignore him, but she had to smile.

“Miss?” said the eighteen year-old boy.

“Ooh,” said Ainsley, screeching to a halt. “I am not a ‘miss.’ I couldn't have been older than two when you were born.”

He had a young face, dotted with pimples and growing in a splotchy beard. He would lose the pimples one day, but he was always going to have that face and he was never going to have that beard. Guessing his age was impossible.

“Sorry,” said the boy, scanning Ainsley’s chest for a nametag and not finding one. “I don’t know your name.”

“It’s Ainsley – what can I do for you?”

“I’m done,” said the boy, pointing to his empty plate.

“Ah.” Ainsley fished her pad out of her apron, thumbed to his ticket, tore it, and handed it to him. “You just pay at the register. Have a great day.”

“Um,” said the boy, not letting her leave. “You were really good.”

“I do my best.” She said sincerely.

“I would like to, uh . . .” the boy was nervous. His cheeks were blushing. “How could I show my appreciation?”

“Actors respond to applause, comedians respond to laughter. Waiters and waitresses respond to tips.” Ainsley smiled.

“Yeah . . .” the boy dropped his head and stared at his receipt. There was a hesitation in his voice that made Ainsley curse herself. The boy didn’t have any money. He had ordered a grilled cheese and a glass of water. "What if I took you out on a date, instead?"

Ainsley laughed, but not mockingly so. "That seems an awful lot like rewarding you for all my hard work."

The boy couldn't help but laugh, too.

"I like your pluck, but I'm going to have to say 'no.'" Ainsley spotted a large pad of paper sitting in the booth beside the boy. “Are you an artist?”

“I’m an art student,” offered the boy feebly.

“That’s your Steno pad?” Ainsley nodded past the boy’s lap.

“Um . . .”

“Draw me a picture.” Ainsley suggested. “Then, when you’re dead and famous, I can sell it and retire.”

The boy laughed and shrugged, “sure.”

Ainsley escaped the boy and ducked into the women’s restroom. “Jessica?” She called. “Jess?” She peered beneath the bathroom stalls. Empty. Ainsley spun out of the restroom and headed for the backdoor. That’s where she found Jessica.

Jessica, sixteen years old, sat in a ball just outside. Her hands were trembling and her eyes were welling up tears.

“Jessica?”

“Ainsley! Hey! Hi!” Jessica pulled up her shirt and wiped her eyes with its collar.

“You okay?”

Jessica shook her head. “There’s just so many of them! I had three tables! Four people at one, two people at another and three at the other! They wanted water with no ice, water with lemon, unsweet tea, sweet tea, Coke, Doctor Pepper, a hamburger hold the pickles, a hamburger with extra pickles, spaghetti with marinara, Alfredo sauce to dip the breadsticks in, salad with dressing to the side, salad with extra dressing, macaroni and cheese instead of a side vegetable, extra this and . . . and . . . and . . . I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I’m prone to panic attacks and they were asking questions and I’m supposed to be able to answer them and . . . and . . .”

Ainsley sighed. There was not going to be any speeding through this problem. She leaned against the wall and slid down it to sit next to Jessica.

“It’s okay.” Ainsley put her arm around Jessica and rocked her. “It can get kind of scary. Is this your first job?”

Jessica nodded and wiped away more tears, feeling more foolish.

“My first job,” remembered Ainsley, “was in this three-storey restaurant. The first floor was a bar, and the second and third floors were the restaurant. My goodness,” she shook her head, “could it get crazy.”

“Where’s that at?”

Ainsley shook her head, “back home. New Orleans.”

“You’re from New Orleans?” Jessica hiccupped.

“Yep.”

“Why on earth would you ever move to Happy Valley?”

“Katrina.” Ainsley said, a crack in her voice revealing more more emotion than she wanted. “But don’t you worry,” she covered, “I’m going back some day. Now c’mon. You can’t let your fears shut you down like this. Because everything you’re afraid of is still in there, waiting for you. On your feet!” Ainsley stood and then pulled Jessica up. “This is just The Dinner Table. Nothing too scary in there. But if you disagree, I’m here for you. Teresa’s here for you, and if you’re nice to her, Beth’s here for you.”

“Thanks.”

“Boyfriend left this for you,” said Teresa as the girls walked back in. “Sorry! I didn’t realize what it was. I almost threw the thing away!”

Ainsley unfolded the piece of paper Teresa was handing her. The boy, the artist who couldn’t afford a tip, had decided to draw her. She couldn’t tell if it had been a quick sketch or something he had labored over – and she wasn’t sure which she preferred.

“Five wants breadsticks,” Teresa grumbled.

Ainsley refolded the art, stuck it in her apron, and went back to work.