Mr. Beauregard Does Something Different
Aug. 17th, 2008 08:51 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
secret_historyThis is in response to one of the August Writing challenges.
I cringe as I see Mr. Beauregard coming up the sidewalk with that walk he always affects. The I’m-a-serious-businessman-see-how-purposefully-I-walk kind of walk. He reaches for the door, which opens with a jangle of the chimes that always sets my nerves on edge. The only thing I hate more than the warning chimes on the door (to make sure I know there’s a customer at the door no matter where I am in the store, even the washroom way at the back) is the daily ritual of small talk to which Mr. Beauregard subjects me when he comes for his pack of Craven A king-sized cigarettes.
“Good morning, Tina. How are you?”
“Morning, Mr. Beauregard. Fine, thanks, and yourself?” He’s a regular, gotta be polite. I blow a bubble with my gum, and pull it into my mouth where it pops with a loud crack. My manager would kill me if he were here, but he never comes in this early, so I don’t care.
“Oh, you know how it goes. At least it’s Friday.” I could have told him it was Friday: he’s wearing the grey suit with his blue-green tie that doesn’t quite work with it, and his slightly-more-casual-than-usual short-sleeved white dress shirt. Even if I didn’t own a calendar, I’d always be able to tell the day by which suit he’s wearing. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him vary his rotation.
“Yeah. TGIF, right?” I decide not to blow another bubble. Even good old Mr. Beauregard might figure out I’m being deliberately rude so that he’ll leave, and the dep. can’t really afford to lose regular business. He’s right, though: it’s Friday, which means that as soon as I take the deposit to the bank, I can close up shop and head home for the weekend. Let someone else handle the cash register for a couple of days while I attend to more important things, like having a life.
He gives that half-squeaking, half-braying laugh of his that I hate almost as much as the door chimes. It’s like someone slitting the throat of a donkey. “Right.”
I pull out the cigarettes from the drawer in which we keep them now that the law says we’re not allowed to display them openly, and look up just in time to see him wiping sweat from his face with a damp Kleenex. His mousy brown hair is clinging to his forehead, and it looks as though he missed a few spots shaving this morning. Has he always sweated this much? It’s not even that hot out: we’ve mostly had rain all this summer. I try not to wrinkle my nose in distaste: Mr. Beauregard might be dull as dishwater, but he’s not stupid. You don’t get to be one-step-below-a-corner-office in whatever firm he works for by being stupid. No, you get there by being purposefully unimaginative.
“That’ll be seven-fifty. Will there be anything else?” Of course there won’t be. He never wants anything else. He’ll pay for it with exact change out of that ridiculous little leather change purse he carries around, counting out quarters and one-and two-dollar coins with nicotine-stained fingers. Then he’ll head out the door to pretend for one more day that he isn’t the soulless minion of some evil corporation, and on Monday we’l start all over again.
“Actually, Tina, there will be.” I look up, surprised that he’s not just buying his cigs and going, but more surprised by his tone. Mr. Beauregard takes a step back toward the front door, and flips the ‘open’ sign around. The sign tells me we’re open, telling the rest of the world that we’re closed.
My heart skips a beat, then skips a couple more, and I swallow my gum. Mr. Beauregard has just pulled a gun out of his accordion-style briefcase, and is pointing it right between my breasts. It doesn’t waver in the slightest. Somehow, I would have expected it to. I’ve never seen a handgun up close before, and never from this angle. It looks a lot bigger than I would have expected. It looks like a cannon.
“What are you doing?” my voice breaks.
“I’m sorry, Tina, but I don’t really have the time to chat with you anymore.” Mr. Beauregard casually reaches out with one hand and draws the blinds over the front windows. Maybe I should jump him while he’s distracted, or at least duck under the counter or something. We don’t exactly have a panic button, or anything, and the lone security camera in the place is a dummy: only there for show as a way of discouraging shoplifters. Mr. Beauregard gestures to the back with his free hand. “I’m going to ask you to open the safe for me now, and place all the money in there in my bag. Do the same with the cash register, except for the loose change: no sense in wasting time with that.”
For all that he sounds calm, he’s sweating like a pig. He must be nervous. Accountants don’t rob dépanneurs every day.
“I... I can’t. Why are you doing this?”
“Tina, Tina, Tina.” He clucks his tongue at me as though I’m some sort of disobedient dog, or a retarded child. “I know you have access to the safe, so do us both a favour: shut up and get on with it before you force me to do something both of us will regret.”
This is surreal. I should be watching this on some crappy prime-time movie. I go to the back, hoping my knees don’t give out in the meantime. There’s a lot of money in the safe: I didn’t go to the bank last week, so it’s two weeks’ worth of profit and the float. I wonder if Mr. Beauregard knew that (how could he?) and planned for it, or if it’s just coincidence. It doesn’t take long to fill his bag. It feels heavier than it should when I hand it to him, our fingers coming into contact long enough for me to feel how clammy and nasty his skin is.
“Good girl,” he says, still in that I’m-talking-to-a-retard voice. “Now, turn around and face the wall.”
“What?”
“Do it!” he snaps, and in spite of myself I do.
To my utter humiliation, it’s right then that I start to cry. “What are you going to do?” I’m shaking, and have to wipe at my nose with the back of my wrist.
His voice is reasonable, but firm. I guess this is what he sounds like when he’s talking to his clients. “The problem here, Tina, is that unlike all the other places I’ve hit, I’m known here. By you. I can’t afford to get caught, so you’re going to have to be sacrificed for the cause, as it were.”
I want to scream “No!” but all that comes out of my mouth is a strangled whimper. I keep hoping my manager will come in, but he often doesn’t come in on Fridays anyway.
“It’s okay, Tina,” Mr. Beauregard continues in that oh-so-reasonable voice. “I don’t think too many people will miss you.
“After all, you’re not all that interesting.”
I cringe as I see Mr. Beauregard coming up the sidewalk with that walk he always affects. The I’m-a-serious-businessman-see-how-purposefully-I-walk kind of walk. He reaches for the door, which opens with a jangle of the chimes that always sets my nerves on edge. The only thing I hate more than the warning chimes on the door (to make sure I know there’s a customer at the door no matter where I am in the store, even the washroom way at the back) is the daily ritual of small talk to which Mr. Beauregard subjects me when he comes for his pack of Craven A king-sized cigarettes.
“Good morning, Tina. How are you?”
“Morning, Mr. Beauregard. Fine, thanks, and yourself?” He’s a regular, gotta be polite. I blow a bubble with my gum, and pull it into my mouth where it pops with a loud crack. My manager would kill me if he were here, but he never comes in this early, so I don’t care.
“Oh, you know how it goes. At least it’s Friday.” I could have told him it was Friday: he’s wearing the grey suit with his blue-green tie that doesn’t quite work with it, and his slightly-more-casual-than-usual short-sleeved white dress shirt. Even if I didn’t own a calendar, I’d always be able to tell the day by which suit he’s wearing. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him vary his rotation.
“Yeah. TGIF, right?” I decide not to blow another bubble. Even good old Mr. Beauregard might figure out I’m being deliberately rude so that he’ll leave, and the dep. can’t really afford to lose regular business. He’s right, though: it’s Friday, which means that as soon as I take the deposit to the bank, I can close up shop and head home for the weekend. Let someone else handle the cash register for a couple of days while I attend to more important things, like having a life.
He gives that half-squeaking, half-braying laugh of his that I hate almost as much as the door chimes. It’s like someone slitting the throat of a donkey. “Right.”
I pull out the cigarettes from the drawer in which we keep them now that the law says we’re not allowed to display them openly, and look up just in time to see him wiping sweat from his face with a damp Kleenex. His mousy brown hair is clinging to his forehead, and it looks as though he missed a few spots shaving this morning. Has he always sweated this much? It’s not even that hot out: we’ve mostly had rain all this summer. I try not to wrinkle my nose in distaste: Mr. Beauregard might be dull as dishwater, but he’s not stupid. You don’t get to be one-step-below-a-corner-office in whatever firm he works for by being stupid. No, you get there by being purposefully unimaginative.
“That’ll be seven-fifty. Will there be anything else?” Of course there won’t be. He never wants anything else. He’ll pay for it with exact change out of that ridiculous little leather change purse he carries around, counting out quarters and one-and two-dollar coins with nicotine-stained fingers. Then he’ll head out the door to pretend for one more day that he isn’t the soulless minion of some evil corporation, and on Monday we’l start all over again.
“Actually, Tina, there will be.” I look up, surprised that he’s not just buying his cigs and going, but more surprised by his tone. Mr. Beauregard takes a step back toward the front door, and flips the ‘open’ sign around. The sign tells me we’re open, telling the rest of the world that we’re closed.
My heart skips a beat, then skips a couple more, and I swallow my gum. Mr. Beauregard has just pulled a gun out of his accordion-style briefcase, and is pointing it right between my breasts. It doesn’t waver in the slightest. Somehow, I would have expected it to. I’ve never seen a handgun up close before, and never from this angle. It looks a lot bigger than I would have expected. It looks like a cannon.
“What are you doing?” my voice breaks.
“I’m sorry, Tina, but I don’t really have the time to chat with you anymore.” Mr. Beauregard casually reaches out with one hand and draws the blinds over the front windows. Maybe I should jump him while he’s distracted, or at least duck under the counter or something. We don’t exactly have a panic button, or anything, and the lone security camera in the place is a dummy: only there for show as a way of discouraging shoplifters. Mr. Beauregard gestures to the back with his free hand. “I’m going to ask you to open the safe for me now, and place all the money in there in my bag. Do the same with the cash register, except for the loose change: no sense in wasting time with that.”
For all that he sounds calm, he’s sweating like a pig. He must be nervous. Accountants don’t rob dépanneurs every day.
“I... I can’t. Why are you doing this?”
“Tina, Tina, Tina.” He clucks his tongue at me as though I’m some sort of disobedient dog, or a retarded child. “I know you have access to the safe, so do us both a favour: shut up and get on with it before you force me to do something both of us will regret.”
This is surreal. I should be watching this on some crappy prime-time movie. I go to the back, hoping my knees don’t give out in the meantime. There’s a lot of money in the safe: I didn’t go to the bank last week, so it’s two weeks’ worth of profit and the float. I wonder if Mr. Beauregard knew that (how could he?) and planned for it, or if it’s just coincidence. It doesn’t take long to fill his bag. It feels heavier than it should when I hand it to him, our fingers coming into contact long enough for me to feel how clammy and nasty his skin is.
“Good girl,” he says, still in that I’m-talking-to-a-retard voice. “Now, turn around and face the wall.”
“What?”
“Do it!” he snaps, and in spite of myself I do.
To my utter humiliation, it’s right then that I start to cry. “What are you going to do?” I’m shaking, and have to wipe at my nose with the back of my wrist.
His voice is reasonable, but firm. I guess this is what he sounds like when he’s talking to his clients. “The problem here, Tina, is that unlike all the other places I’ve hit, I’m known here. By you. I can’t afford to get caught, so you’re going to have to be sacrificed for the cause, as it were.”
I want to scream “No!” but all that comes out of my mouth is a strangled whimper. I keep hoping my manager will come in, but he often doesn’t come in on Fridays anyway.
“It’s okay, Tina,” Mr. Beauregard continues in that oh-so-reasonable voice. “I don’t think too many people will miss you.
“After all, you’re not all that interesting.”
