god help the outcasts

But he wasn’t fast enough. Holly scooped up the bag near her feet, turning to hand it back to its buyer. The customer behind her shook his head, so she leaned out of line to look further. She could barely see the man behind the cluster clutched  in his hands. “Here ya go. Er… Do you wanna go on ahead of me?” Realizing his predicament, and that he was liable to keep dropping more the longer he wrestled with his rinds, she nudged her few sundries aside and placed the bag on the counter. If this had been a supermarket she might have offered the man a cart or basket. Who bought that much food at a gas station anyway? She had only come in for some milk, though a few little impulses had found their way onto the counter. And was that really ALL pork rinds? She was glad she had grabbed a bag before this glutton cleared the shelf. Maybe he was the one responsible for the recent shortage. She didn’t expect them to be so popular in these parts, but then again Coldgrove seemed full of surprises. The man between them rolled his eyes but didn’t say anything. Holly offered him an apologetic shrug. He was probably just here to buy gas. The older gentleman manning the register had that sort of bored-to-death expression conveying he could not care less who went next or if anyone went at all; this was his life either way.

The last he wanted was to draw more attention to himself after that small debacle but it seemed that was unavoidable, just as much as it was that he’d drop another. Trace didn’t like the idea of cutting in line either no matter the reason, but the idea of dropping his entire cache had his anxiety already as high as it was going to go anyways – so he went for it. “Thanks…” He muttered, taking the final steps forward to place all the items on the counter. With his gaze less hindered, he turned to look at the woman out of his peripheral – an instant regret. He knew this woman. She was that lady at the church garage sale. In sync with the realization, his eyes twitched back forward hoping she hadn’t seen enough him to be able to do the same. The last time they had met had been awkward enough. His entire body posture spoke of this – even in the way he scrambled for his wallet. The part of him that shifted was his forearm, his torso facing completely forward and the rest of him stayed close together as if he focused hard enough he would turn pencil-thin. Finally, finally, the cashier finished his transaction and placed it in a bag and his cigarettes on the counter. There was a shuffle of feet as he shifted his weight to leave, but his manners had him stuck. She’d done him a service after all and saved him further embarrassment. Digging back into his wallet, he pulled out a twenty and placed it on the table, “For her. Give her the change too.” he grunted, jabbing his thumb backwards just in case the employee didn’t catch his drift. When he was sure the message was clear, fingers clasped around the bag while his head ducked against his chest, using his hair to cover himself as best as he could as he moved to turn towards the door.

Yup. Nothing but pork rinds. She indulged, mostly for nostalgia sake, on occasion, but couldn't imagine herself eating that much of the stuff. Reminded her of her dad. Maybe it was a guy thing. Oh well, there were worse things to be addicted t— oh, and there were the cigarettes. She thought too soon, chuckling internally. Everyone had their vices.

Breath Mint || Holly & Trace

But he wasn’t fast enough. Holly scooped up the bag near her feet, turning to hand it back to its buyer. The customer behind her shook his head, so she leaned out of line to look further. She could barely see the man behind the cluster clutched  in his hands. “Here ya go. Er... Do you wanna go on ahead of me?” Realizing his predicament, and that he was liable to keep dropping more the longer he wrestled with his rinds, she nudged her few sundries aside and placed the bag on the counter. If this had been a supermarket she might have offered the man a cart or basket. Who bought that much food at a gas station anyway? She had only come in for some milk, though a few little impulses had found their way onto the counter. And was that really ALL pork rinds? She was glad she had grabbed a bag before this glutton cleared the shelf. Maybe he was the one responsible for the recent shortage. She didn’t expect them to be so popular in these parts, but then again Coldgrove seemed full of surprises. The man between them rolled his eyes but didn’t say anything. Holly offered him an apologetic shrug. He was probably just here to buy gas. The older gentleman manning the register had that sort of bored-to-death expression conveying he could not care less who went next or if anyone went at all; this was his life either way.

Holly smiled to herself, half-distracted watching the mother and child duo as she folded shirts to pass the time. The current stack of flannels led her to speculate a lumberjack had cleaned out his closet. Or perhaps his wife, she mused. The mother was dragging the little one away by the hand after the little rascal had decided an old lawnmower was much more interesting than anything in his box.

‘Wait…who?’ Trace furrowed his brow after the woman took his tapes and began looking over them – only making him more self-conscious. He just wanted to buy them…not have look at them all and point out her favorites. However…he was a little glad she had made that discovery. Better her than Alek. “Uh – don’t know what this is.” he grumbled, quickly pecking it out of her hands, throwing it into the stack of trinkets beside him. 

Holly-Grace might have been annoyed at this stranger's disregard for her attempts at organization, if she wasn't otherwise amused at his discomfort. Of course it may have been a simple mistake, but men were very protective of their fragile egos. Who cared if the guy liked ABBA? Holly wouldn't judge. Okay, maybe a little bit...

SALE!!

On days like this, Trace wished their was something better to do. That day in particular being one where Alek had gotten home late after clubbing. He’d be out for at least another nine hours with a bad hangover…so wouldn’t be up till around 4pm. No one else was really up at this ungodly hour in the morning anyways. So really what else was there to do but to scout the town? That was one of the better things about the early mornings in the sleepy town of Coldgrove; not too much traffic. Weaving his bike along the streets was always more fun when he had to stop less, though he did stop when something caught his attention at one of the local churches. Normally he wouldn’t have stopped here even for a funeral, but this time they had something going on that peaked his interest. Garage sales always had something, even when it all looked like nothing. Pulling his Harley up into the parking lot, Trace got up, ignoring the elderly couple that gave him a side glance view. He definitely was not the neatest looking guy by any means, but people could stand to be a little more couth about their disgust. Pots. Pans. Torture Devices. Oh wait no those were shampoo bottles. Clothes. Clothes. Clothes. Surely there was something here of use. That’s when he saw them. Moving towards the heap of shit, Marshall grabbed a few sets of air fresheners on his way to the grand daddy of stuff – old cassette tapes. If there was one thing he missed, it was that old folk music that you could always find the tapes of back home. Nobody wanted them which was maybe why Trace liked them. Outcasts had to stick together right? With his hands full, he took a glance around for the attendant. She definitely wasn’t hard to find; All church-goers seemed to have a certain look to them – that holier-than-thou look.  Even the thought alone made him suddenly feel a little guilty, if not a lot hypocritical. With a sigh he ditched the judgement to the best of his abilities. Either way he was only going to be here for a few minutes more and then he was out of there. “How much is all this?” he asked her quietly, holding up the bundle in his arms as he stood to her side, waiting for her to turn to him.

Holly smiled to herself, half-distracted watching the mother and child duo as she folded shirts to pass the time. The current stack of flannels led her to speculate a lumberjack had cleaned out his closet. Or perhaps his lady, she mused. The mother was dragging the little one away by the hand after the little rascal had decided an old lawnmower was much more interesting than anything in his box.