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"Stepping out again?"
"Yeah. I'm gonna' go get some supplies. You need anything?"
"Wish you'd settle down... Like ya' got ants in your pants..." Larry looked up from his little mess of magazine scraps & typewritten paper. He was known to many as Gobbler, perhaps because his neck leaned forward, his big glossy eyes disturbed the soul, and his voice was riddled with stuttering and mumbling. He returned his gaze to his 'zine in progress--clipping, trimming, rearranging--then put his pen to his lips, as if in thought--"Yeah, I guess I could use a glue stick or two... This is more work than I thought." He scratched his head and attempted to smooth out his ratty hair.
"Right, right... See ya' later, then."
"Later," Gobbler mumbled, once again consumed by the production of his 'zine. It was his first contribution to the trash heap of photocopied ramblings and depressing poetry that circulated across the nation. He was an avid reader; a stack of tatter-edged, rare editions composed his personal library. He was calling issue #01 "Dissemination of Golden Idols: A Comprehensive Guide to the Summerville Scene." Though it seemed grandiose at first sight, the scene in Summerville was truly innocuous and humble. Only a small group of friends, huddling in a dilapidated tenement, represented the local punk consciousness. All the other political dissidents in town sat snuggly in front of TVs and pitied themselves for being discontent with the American Dream & yet following the ritual formula all the same. Other teenagers ran around between home, work, and parties in gas-guzzling SUVs.
* * *
"How do you do?" asked the clerk of the store, using the tone which indicated she wasn't really interested in conversation, but just following orders from her manager. It was most likely an experiment in improving customer satisfaction without raising expenditures. The clerk didn't even raise an eyebrow when her question went unanswered. She merely adjusted her name tag (Sally... Sally was her name). She merely turned the page in her Stephen King novel. She merely removed the band from her blond hair, made a few adjustments, and replaced it. She merely tapped her glittery blue fingernails on the countertop... softly.
"... Evening." She looked up from her novel, slightly aggravated. She saw all sorts of merchandise in grimy hands.
"Ready to check out?" Another meaningless question. She put down her book, grabbed the glue sticks and spray paint, passed them under the scanner, and pushed a few buttons. She put her limp hand over the crumpled dollar bills on the counter top and deposited them in the till. She scooped up the change and snatched the receipt from the register. "Need a bag for all that?"
"... Uhh... No... I guess not."
"Have a nice night." A sigh, a gesture of dismissal. Even from the other side of the parking lot, she could be seen, under the fluorescent lighting, guarding the shelves of candy bars, soda pop, potato chips, and other useless goods that filled the space.
* * *
"Well, I'll be damned. I'd never thought I'd find you walking around in broad daylight ever again!" Another teenager roaming around downtown, high on pot. Red hair covers his bloodshot eyes. His hands lay hidden in the pockets of his baggy pants. A hood conceals him from the street light. It must be somewhere around quarter after seven by now. It has been dark out for some time.
"Hey. What's up?"
"I just ripped a monster boll of hash," he says in a monotone voice. He smirks and snickers and snorts. A hand comes out of his pocket to bring cheese snacks to his mouth. An awkward silence ensues. "Well, I gotta' go. Need some munchies. You know the feelin'." Another small laugh. Hash humor.
"Yeah... Hang tough..."
"¡Viva la revolución!" Another chuckle. Everything is a microcosmic riot. "Watch for the pigs... Ya' know, one of these days, that bullshit's gonna' get ya' in trouble." A shrug in reply. "Yeah, won't be so smug when ya' in the cooler. Ya' see, drugs is the way to go--a private... uh... a ghost revolution. I'm shatterin' the mold and nobody knows, boy." A cuff on the shoulder. A nod. He walks away. The fellow traveler. The fellow phantom. The fellow zombie.
"Jerk-off," muttered under breath. Warm, moist exhalation is visible in chilly night air. Setting sun decorates the sidewalk with a golden tint.
* * *
"There you are!" Gobbler again. He's pacing around now, impatiently. He opened the door and took the paper bag, upending it and removing the two glue sticks, leaving the spray paint to roll around on the floor. Shannon is there now, sitting on the floor, cross-legged, marveling at Gobbler's genius. It looks no more organized than before. Gobbler is made because he couldn't complete the process while he still had the inspiration. He pops the top off and on of the glue stick. If he does it now, it will just be a routine, not magic. He's trying to live like his whole life is one big magic moment. It takes a lot of spark and concentration. he is flustered when he cannot reach his goal, and will probably spend the rest of the night sulking.
"Damn Gobbler, you're so touchy. This woulda' been done months ago if you would quit goofin' around," she says. Gobbler just walks out. She shuffles the piece of paper together and gets up. She's Gobbler's biggest fan; his bullshit moves her heart out of its usual dwelling, makes her forget her shyness. She's actually submitted a poem to his 'zine, and is growing impatient to see the final product. Shannon is very protective of her writing, so it takes a lot of faith to place her cherished scribbling to Gobbler's twitching hands.