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Plastic Shoes and Wooden Bullets By Bryan Chambala Here is our first attempt at a serial soap-opera/detective story minus the pictures. We'll have a new writer for each issue's installment. Trading cards coming soon. Sherry Garry was standing in the middle of a grocery store when everything clicked into place. Or out of place. Depends on perspective. She was in the cereal isle counting the nickels in her pocket when she picked her 2-year-old daughter out of the grocery cart and walked out of the store. She left a cart full of groceries sitting in aisle 5, walked to her 1985 Honda Civic in the parking lot, aisle 7, and drove away. She went to the video store, rented an arm full of movies and drove off to Jiffy Lube. "Change the oil," she told the man. He did, in 15 minutes. She got her hair cut, bought a new dress at K-Mart and bought her little girl a lollipop. She strapped her daugher back into the car and drove to the newspaper in town. She pulled into the newspaper parking lot, stepped out of the car and checked her hair in the window. She rolled down the window on the passenger side and gave her daughter a kiss on the forehead. * * * * * * Billy Snider was on the phone, chewing on a stick of licorice and writing on a notepad. "I guess I understand sir," he said into the phone. "But I'm pretty sure you told me it was this year. I know, I know, but we can't be running corrections every time some guy makes a mistake." There was a pause. "Next time I suggest planning ahead for an interview and getting everything ahead of time," he said. "Sir, I understand you don't think you're wrong. No one ever does. It's okay. And no, no there aren't any editors here right now. They can't do anything for you anyway. Okay, well you have a nice day too." He hung up. Billy's editor leaned over the divider, "some kind of problem?" "Nah, nah, just a confused reader," Billy said. * * * * * * * Billy Snider was opening the door of a tiny car that had duct taped rear headlights when Sherry first spotted him. "Excuse me sir," she shouted. Billy turned around. Sherry stopped dead in her tracks. Standing before her was a lanky man wearing a pair of olive-green pants, ripped leather dock shoes, a pressed white shirt adorned with blood red flowers and a headful of greasy hair that shone in the August sun. Billy started talking through a mouthful of caps, bridges and polished porcelain. "Hello doll," he said. "You know, I've got a little place in the country. We can sit and cook bacon and go fishing and buy a few gallons of suntan lotion if you want." She looked at him. "I need a reporter," she said. He took off his sunglass and squinted in Sherry's direction. "How old are you?" he asked. She looked at him again. He had pasty skin, he looked lazy and he was looking at her legs. But he looked like a reporter and she guessed he'd do. She figured you come storming into a newspaper parking lot in the middle of August with a headful of nervous ideas and you can't be picky. "I'm sixteen and I want to kill the president," she said. "Well now," he said, removing his elbow from the roof of the car. "There's a story." Bryan Chambala is a senior. Leave him alone. But if you want to talk to someone, call Sam, one of our most dedicated editors. He's smart, fuzzy and warm and he loves to talk. He won't tell you to leave him alone like I did. I'm a grumpy bastard who deserves nothing less than a good beating with a garden weasel. Sam is a nice guy. And he's single. |
