rattle.

Shortly after her divorce, Sarah, with Jim, who was then only ten years old, moved in with her older brother, Bill, in what was a suburb with a lot of farmland. Two years after they’d settled, with some aid from her brother, Sarah invested in what had been one of her greatest desires, a business, a cozy little cafe nestled in the shopping center near the square of town. It was convenient, supplying the local youth not only a respectable hang-out and employment opportunities to nurture accountability. That, coupled with her involvement with the school bake sales ( which, naturally, a few peevish PTA mothers were given to see as an interference ), gained her the general good opinion of her neighbors. 

Sarah’s eager interest in hiring adolescents was disconsoling to Jim, who at sixteen, had chosen not to subscribe to any particular social group, who willfully ignored the stratum of the student body altogether, and who, as a result, was viewed as an anomaly. The awareness made him prefer his own company.

Aside from the general need for employees, the concerns his mother had expressed on numerous occasions, and fairly recently, regarding her son’s lack of friends justified his confidence in suspecting that it reasoned her behavior. Though Sarah was generally a tolerant, if not pliant woman on the subject of quirkiness, and often left him to his whims and devices, Jim knew his mother well, her cues and intonations; a familiarity that, when enhanced by uncommon perception, alerted him to when she was trying to coax him into a kinder opinion and suggest he would benefit from doing so. As always, such exchanges are plagued by the intrinsic evil of reverse psychology.— It was at least partially effective. At the most, there were one or two people Jim could tolerate and found amusing. But having fed his comforts on the breast of disappointment, and let them mature into habits, he wasn’t all too disposed to put himself out there beyond civil chit chat. Older people he was likelier to gravitate because, when he thought about it, they had more to offer. He could learn from them. They were more easy-mannered.

This all occurred to Jim as he leaned on the counter by the display case. Resting his weight on one leg, chin in his hand and fingertips on his lips, poor posture and a dazed expression made his boredom pronounced. Having ( regrettably ) offered to supervise in Sarah’s absence, the only consolation to being the third wheel on shift was the lack of traffic. Spring break had cut it in half, making it slow day, but a quiet day.

As he drummed the other set of fingers, knuckles moving in a wave, dusk blue eyes stared in the direction of the little dining area tucked in the corner by the entrance. He stayed that way for a few moments, then dragged his eyes over to the sign holder sitting next to the register. An eight-by-eleven cut of plastic, resting on a curved base, had in it an advertisement for an open position; a cashier, with flexible hours, mostly evening and weekend shifts, and a wage of nine and hour. Sarah’s last hire, a woman of fifty or older, had decided after a month that she didn’t need the job as much as she’d thought and claimed to have another. Between negotiating minimal hours and requesting time off within the first week, the woman’s ambivalence was distinct to Jim to the point that he figured she wouldn’t stay longer than she had.

Wanting something to do with his hands, and to linger for reassurance, Jim amused himself by taking the sign and turning it several times, plastic scraping the laminate counter. It was short-lived. Jim stood up straight, wide, meaty palms slapping the counter. He turned and strode into the kitchen, scrubbing his nose with his arm. With two other people present, he figured his individual services wouldn’t be required.

Scooping up the insulated neoprene mitts and pulling them on, Jim opened the topmost oven and pulled out the sheet of finished cookies. He placed them on the prep table, then pulled out another tray, tore off a fresh wax sheet and laid it over. Spatula in hand, he began wedging the cookies off of one tray and sliding them onto the other, making two rows.

Halfway through the process, a voice he didn’t recognize came  from the counter. The drone of the commercial machinery drowning out a heavy sigh, Jim pulled his hands out of the mitts and tossed them onto the table. Bowing his chin, wiping his hands on the butt of his jeans, he sauntered out into the open and raised his eyes. He offered reluctantly, ❝ Can I help you with somethin’..? ❞