Candy

Candy

               There was this woman who worked over at Rite Aid and her name was, I shit you not, her name was Candy.  I couldn’t believe it the first time I overheard somebody calling her by that name and I did a double take.  She saw me all confused as I looked back and forth between her and her co-worker.  This Candy chick wasn’t wearing a name tag or anything so I just decided to roll with it.

               When it was time to check out I asked her if it was true or not and she confirmed the rumor.

               “What are you, from the 1950’s or something?” I asked.

               “40’s,” she chuckled.

               I moved on, grabbed my booze and headed out the door like the cuck I am.  Should’ve asked her out, just didn’t have the balls.

               Came back in another time when I was desperate to find a handle of Seagram’s 7 for $11.99 and saw her again.  She was wearing pink eye shadow.  It was ridiculous.  It didn’t match a single part of her work uniform and it looked atrocious.  She just kind of lazily put it on in these vague circles around her hazel eyes and the contrast was not flattering.

               Got in her line again because it was shorter after all and I had to get home quick to drink myself into oblivion, watching the Giants lose with losers like Aaron Hill and Gorkys Hernandez sucking up the joint.  There’s nothing worse than watching inept right-handed hitters wail at the ball and flub easy plays in the field while Madison Bumgarner sits on the bench laughing at the losers on his losing team fail miserably, claiming that his “dirt bike accident” left him “unable” to pitch and lose twenty games this season.

               I couldn’t help but comment on Candy’s pink eye shadow.

               “That cotton-candy eye shadow,” I said, pointing at her eyes, pantomiming an awkward motion through the air as I traced her inept attempt at makeup with my index finger.  She certainly had lovely eyes though.  They were vibrant.

               “Oh?” she said and laughed.  “You noticed?”

               “Yeah it really stands out,” I said, straightening up a bit.  “It’s tasteful.”

               She shook her head and looked down, biting her lip a little.  There was this look in her eye, I couldn’t quite place it.  Was that shame?  Was that arousal?  Was that discomfort?  I couldn’t tell.

               She sent me on my way and we didn’t say much more.

               I saw her outside the store once a few months later.  She walked by me toward the old Mexican restaurant and we passed each other.  I was walking on a narrow strip of sidewalk and so was she.  She was coming right for me.  It was that same look, the one I couldn’t figure out, but she was looking down – straight down, into the curb.  She was going to bump into me if I didn’t do something so I stepped off the curb, into the street, and some old hag in a Prius almost hit me.  Candy looked over at the situation from a sideways angle.  I almost got run over for this woman, so I’m glad she had the courtesy to even notice I was such a gentleman.  But she didn’t say anything and kept walking away.

               Another day she was crossing the street and I don’t know where the hell she was going.  I was going to get me some booze, goddamn it.  There’s only so much of Drew Stubbs and Justin Ruggiano a man can take.  Mark Melancon has no out pitch and it’s pretty horrible that the Giants aren’t even good enough for our expensive, ineffective closer to even be an issue, so it’s more Seagram’s 7 for me.

               So Candy was there crossing the street and I was with my two friends, Idiot Boy and the Clown.  I was getting booze and Idiot Boy needed some Gummy Bears and the Clown needed some cigarettes so we all thought we’d take a stroll down to Rite Aid.  Somebody said something about CVS and I barked something about how they’re the worst store of all time since they don’t sell cigarettes, and that’s why real, serious people shop at Rite Aid, or something to that effect.  And there was Candy, looking down at the ground with that expression on her face, that same one.  It was driving me fucking bonkers.

               Did she hate me? Did she hate me for hanging out with Idiot Boy and the Clown?  Did she hate that I wouldn’t talk to her, or that I didn’t have the balls to just ask her out?  I almost got hit by a fucking Prius for this broad, she should ask me out!

               She passed on in silence, her atrocious eye shadow sweeping past us like clouds drifting through the sky at sunset.

               “I’ll get you your booze,” Idiot Boy said.  “Go walk her home.”

               “Nah,” I replied, watching her walk awkwardly away.  “She’s not in to me.”

               “That’s not the worst thing in the world,” the Clown consoled me.  “Bitch can’t walk straight.  She’s also four foot nine.  How the fuck are you intimidated by someone who is legally a midget?”

               I wanted to sock the Clown in the face but thought better of it.

               “Give me a cigarette.”

               The Clown complied.  He’s my bitch after all.  I lit it up and watched her haphazardly walk toward the bus stop.  The girl couldn’t walk straight to save her life.

               “See what I mean?” the Clown said, pointing.

               “Shut up,” I pointed the lit cigarette at his face.  “You fucking back off about my future’s wife’s walk, Clown.  It’s just that I make women weak at the knees.”

               The Clown shut up real quick.

               Later on, I found a Pink Cadillac for sale, one that I thought matched her horrible eye shadow.  It was all the way down in Indio, California.  Idiot Boy and the Clown don’t know how to drive so I took the Greyhound Bus down there to pick it up and bought it off of some dipshit for five thousand dollars.

               I drove it home, drove it right up to that Rite Aid and parked sideways, half way in the handicap spot and half way in the regular spot to show all those yuppies who was boss.  I left my music blaring, my windows down.  I had picked up some pimp dice on the way up and they were hanging off my rear view mirror.  I strolled right into the store and there was Candy, all dolled up in her horrible eye shadow, all four foot nine inches of her.  I’ll tell you man, she looked like she was six foot one behind that register.  Those eyes man, she didn’t need no stinking eye shadow, but the pink made her all the more beautiful.  Candy had style, she had class.  That’s something most women don’t have.

               So I’ll tell you what I did, I strolled right up to that cash register and I said, “Hey.  Candy, Baby.”

               “Oh,” she said, smiling, looking down at her shoes.

               I said, “Don’t be shy, Candy.  I bought a pink Cadillac to match your eye shadow.  What do you say you take the rest of the day off and get in the car with me?  We’ll drive at to the coast and watch the sunset.”

               “That sounds terrific,” she said, finally looking up to smile at me.  “But you’ll have to wait.  I get off in a few hours.”

               “Candy, baby,” I said.  “I’ve got so much money you won’t need to work again.  Fuck independence, personal financial stability and dignity.  All we need is each other and our pink Cadillac and those beautiful eyes of yours.”

               “Okay, babe,” she said.  “What the hell.”

               And then with that, she hopped over the counter and took my hand.  She looked back at the horrible boss man of hers with the knee pads and told him she was never coming back.  We skipped and sang out into the parking lot and suddenly when I realized I shouldn’t have left my keys in the car I saw a couple of Mexicans driving away with my pink Cadillac.  I shouted at them and they laughed at me as they burned rubber and sped off into the distance.

               “I hate you!” Candy said, and I never saw her again.

               I walked back to Idiot Boy’s house and told him to give me his Gummy Bears.  He didn’t have any.  He ate them all the night before.  I called the Clown to ask him to come over and give me a few cigarettes but he didn’t pick up, the fuckin’ jerk.

               Oh, Candy baby.