Counter Culture : Not It
Adam Matcho
“Mmmrrph,” he said, and when he did, a larger glob of saliva dripped onto his jacket. He smacked the case with the top of his wrist, without moving his fingers, which were tightly curled around each other, as if he were holding invisible batons. The sound of the man’s wrist on the case sounded throughout the entire store, clearly unnerving Chris. He began asking the same few customers he had previously approached if they needed him yet.
I opened the case and held my hand under a display board of necklaces, doing my best Vanna White. The man in the army jacket mumbled and flailed his arms. I placed my hand below a display board a few spaces over, one that featured various pendants. The man bobbed his head once, sighing loudly. I took that as a “yes.”
I removed the entire display board from the case and held in right in front of the man’s face. Behind me, I heard Chris whisper, “Eww,” to himself, apparently.
The pendants on the display board were all similar. They were made of some cheap, silver-coated metal. The flimsy, plastic packaging didn’t even say what they were made of. All it claimed was that the pendants were made of Real Metal, in some kind of lighting bolt, AC DC lettering that is supposed to indicate rock n’ roll.
There were a few pentagrams and pentacles, an anarchy symbol and dragons, a few smiling skulls and one with a wizard holding a crystal ball prism that shot small colors in all directions when light passed through. The man in the chair circled his limp hand around the wizard and the prism.
“This one?” I said, pointing at the wizard.
“Mmmrrph,” he bobbed his head once. As his chin plopped back down, between his shoulders, a bead of drool landed on the edge of the pendant display board.
“Oh, fuckin’ gross.” I could still hear Chris from somewhere behind me. My teeth instantly clenched and I knew if Chris was standing beside me, I could punch him right in the cocksucker. For some reason, the drool, as disgusting as it was, was something I could maybe forget about, perhaps block out, but Chris’ comment had made it worse, confirmed its existence somehow.
Luckily, the drool had hit the bottom corner of the display board and the wizard pendant was near the top. I would not have to touch the drool or have it stick to my hand.
 |
I carefully removed the wizard pendant and set the display board, face-up, behind the counter, thinking of how I could fling it at Chris when this was all over. “Is this okay?” I said, leaning down, beside the man. He slammed the outside of his hand against the motorized wheelchair’s steering mechanism, which looked a lot like a video game joystick, and began to turn around. I wasn’t sure if I pissed him off or not. Did he see through my whole act? Did he know my stomach had been rumbling the entire time because I was nervous? That I actually held my breath for a few seconds because there was a stagnant odor about him?I immediately jumped to the other extreme and wanted to show him I would be kind even if I wasn’t being paid. I wanted to be like Chris, running around and helping everybody else in the store, if for nothing else, to help myself. Suddenly I wanted to rub this man’s feet and make him mashed potatoes. I wanted to unroll his corpse-like fingers, cracking them to life, and shake his hand. But the man executed his three-point turn and waited for me in front of the counter. Chris, who had been hunkering down there, providing commentary the entire time, was now in the back of the store, staying out of sight, amongst the camouflage of strobe lights and smoke machines. “$10.69,” I said, over the counter, to the man in the Pirates hat. “Mmmrrph,” he said and began swinging one of his arms and rubbing one of his cheeks against his shoulder. He wanted me to get behind him. I slowly walked out from the counter and as soon as I did, I felt exposed. I looked to the back, toward the cyclotrons and blacklights, where Chris was immersed in reorganizing the collection of aquatic motion lamps. |
|---|
I stood beside the man and stopped. I bent over and asked what I could do. Again, the man used his one arm and face, motioning to a netted pouch on the back of his wheelchair. The little pouch was nearly filled with what appeared to be trash. There was an empty Capri Sun, tissues, a page ripped from a magazine with a beautiful woman and a flap that smelled like perfume on its edge, receipts, foil wrappers, a bag from the sports store right next to us and a wallet.
I reached in and snagged the wallet with two fingers, as quickly as I could. The top of the netting was elasticized, so I had to hold it open while I stuck half of my forearm into the collection of garbage and keepsakes. For a moment, I felt like my arm was mechanical, like one of those prize claws, controlled by a joystick that looks similar to the one on the man’s chair. The only difference was I wasn’t trying to win a stuffed crocodile for my son or a cheap watch for my wife. I was trying to get this man’s wallet without touching anything else, which was impossible.
When I pulled my hand out of the netted pouch, I wanted to run away and shower. Even the wallet felt dirty. I imagined thousands of transparent parasites and germs scrambling from the wallet and embedding themselves in my skin and under my fingernails.
