Oblivion

Short story about a young guy and his aspirations to go into social work and help others but, unfortunately, he can't see right in front of him!

Clinton Watts worked the early morning shift at the 24 Hour, a small convenience store and gas station in a shabby part of town.

He had plans and dreams. Although his paycheck was nothing to brag about, Clinton was saving his funds to attend junior college. He wanted his own place; a nice place. He wanted to go into social work. He wanted to help those less fortunate than himself become something someday; just like he was going to do.

Glancing at the clock on the wall with the cracked plastic casing, Clinton noticed is was almost 6:15. She would be here soon. He poured a Styrofoam cup of black coffee, retrieved two packets of sugar from the container that sat next to the stained percolating pot and plucked a large cinnamon bun from the rack of cheap breakfast foods standing at attention in the corner. With tax, the total came to $2.29; every morning, just like clockwork. He tried to get her in and out of the shop as quickly as possible, hence the prior preparation.

Hearing the small bell above the glass door clang, he braced himself. He smelled her before he saw her. The mixture of body odor and whiskey always made his nose run and his sleepy green eyes sting.

Looking down into his palms, he stood stiffly as two crumpled dollar bills and a handful of change tumbled from her fingerless cotton gloves and onto the chipped blue counter.

Clinton watched warily as the woman pushed the patched, faded burgundy toboggan back on her wiry gray head. She ripped open the cinnamon bun and shoved it into the side of her mouth. Her tongue darted in and out of the gap where her front teeth had once been. The young clerk's face scrunched in disgust; just like clockwork. He would have to clean the icing remnants from the counter and floor -- again.

She slurped the coffee and placed the cup, a brown liquid trail slowly inching its way downward, onto the counter gently.

They never exchanged words. They never made eye contact.

Pulling her tattered plaid coat around her slight frame, she shuffled out the door; the bell sounding its familiar clang. Clinton breathed a sigh of relief.

After disinfecting the counter and sweeping the floor, Clinton pulled up a stool and opened the local junior college catalog, marking which classes he would one day take.

Customers were sporadic over the next hour. The young man welcomed the incoming employee and the end of his day.

Settling into his old, dingy, rattle-trap of a vehicle, Clinton switched on the radio. His routine classic country station was soon interrupted by a news anchor announcing a tragic fatality. Rolling his eyes, he cringed.

"Man, that was my favorite song, too!" Clinton said to the bug-splattered windshield. "Ain't nobody got time for this."

The anchor was saying that a pedestrian, a woman, was attempting to cross a busy street when she was struck and hit by a car. Clinton flicked the radio dial with his thumb, the news quickly escaping his mind as it was replaced with a cheery Christmas tune.

The next morning, just like clockwork, Clinton Watts adjusted his plastic name tag and waited until it was almost 6:15. Then, just like clockwork, he poured a Styrofoam cup of black coffee, retrieved two packets of sugar from the container that sat next to the stained, percolating pot and plucked a large cinnamon bun from the rack of cheap breakfast foods standing at attention in the corner.

Bending his disheveled blond head back down into his junior college catalog, Clinton the store clerk scribbled barely legible notes.

Aspirations:
House
Car
Clothes
School
Social Worker
Care
Love

Hearing the bell above the glass door clang, Clinton absentmindedly pushed the cinnamon bun and coffee closer toward the edge of the counter.

"Whatcha writin' there, son?" a low, masculine voice asked.

Clinton looked up to find a tall, dark-headed police officer staring down at him.

"Umm, just some future plans, sir," he stammered. "I'm gonna get out of this town one day and then help others do the same. I'm a real people-person."

"Good for you, son," the officer grinned. "Good for you."

"Thank you, sir. What can I do for you?" Clinton asked as he looked at the clock. Odd, she was late.

"I was wondering what you could tell me about Veronica Lucca." The policeman removed a small spiral notebook from his jacket pocket.

"I'm sorry, who?" Clinton asked.

"Veronica Lucca, forty-one, gray hair, brown eyes," the man read a generic description. "She had several receipts from this store in her plaid coat pocket, all time-stamped within a minute or two every single day for," he looked at his notes again, "four months."

"Was that her name? Veronica Lucca?"

The officer stared blankly.

"Was the woman that got killed yesterday, according to the radio, a homeless lady, no teeth, ratty old coat, stunk to high Heaven?"

"Well, yes, that sounds like her."

"She'd actually been coming in here for about two years, officer." Clinton shrugged. "Don't know a thing about her."

"Nothing?" the officer shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "And you say you're a people-person?"

"Oh yes!" Clinton beamed. "I can't wait to go to school and help people."

As the glass door closed behind him and he heard the bell clang, the officer shook his head sadly.

"Ya don't need an education to help out. Some people just need to open their eyes."

Author's Note

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