Counter Culture : Not It

Adam Matcho

1 : 2 : 3

I held the wallet up in front of the man and he bobbed his head once. He seemed more lethargic now. It was like it took all of his power just to assure me I was doing the right thing.

I opened the wallet and the man smacked a lone, slotted credit card with his hand. I removed the card and walked back behind the register. I started thinking about when this would all be over. It must have been a half-hour so far. I thought about Chris and silently called him a mother fucker. I thought about the time we had opened a package of sea monkeys from the store and nurtured them for weeks. We had fed and observed the tiny shrimp, keeping them safe, behind the counter. And then Chris came back from vacation one day and thought it was snow globe.

After the sea monkey genocide, I had taken to calling Chris a fucker whenever I could. If I had to offer a police-commissioned sketch artist a physical description of Chris, I would say, “He looks like a real fucker, you know?”

A receipt shot out of the cash register and I looked at the line the man had to sign. I spotted a clipboard where we kept the daily To Do List. I clipped the receipt in place and walked back around the counter. I put the wallet in the pouch on the back of the wheelchair and held the clipboard and receipt in front of the man. I held out a pen so he could sign and the man looked up at me. He wasn’t even trying to take the pen. He just moved his head between the pen and his hand. I knew what those motions meant; I had seen them before. I slid the pen, tip-first, into the small space between the un-flexing fingers and palm of his loose fist. It seemed less like a hand and more like a claw and I had trouble forcing the tip of the pen through the tight opening at bottom. I finally put my palm of the butt of the pen and pushed it through so he could write. As the pen slid through, my palm came to rest on top of his closed hand. He began moving his hand now, signing his name, with mine right on top, almost guiding him. The name was illegible, a few lines that tapered into a scribble. I quickly took my hand from his and pulled the pen through the bottom of his fist. I went back, behind the counter, and shoved the signed receipt into the register.

I handed the bagged wizard pendant to the man, wishing him a good day and actually meaning it, but he didn’t move. I thought maybe I was being inconsiderate, forcing him to reach, so I walked back out from behind the counter and attempted to put the bag in the pouch on the back of his chair.

“Mmmrrph.”

“Mmmrrph.” This time when he said it there was sort of a muffled inflection, like he wanted me to hurry, as if he hoped this would soon be over too.

I saw, under his opened army jacket, he wore a chain around his neck. He continued to point with his chin and flaccid arm in the general direction of his neck.

“Do you want me to put this on?” I said, slowly removing the pendant from the plastic bag I had placed it in. I found myself only giving him a peek at the top half of the pendant, obscuring the prism, another one of my Vanna White reveals. When I noticed I was doing it I stopped immediately and thought of biting my hand for being so dumb.

“Mmm… yes… rrr,” he said. I definitely heard a “yes” in there.

“Okay,” I said. “Can you take your necklace off?”

He did not answer.

“Okay, I’m just going to do this for you now,” I said. The cadence of my voice was matched by my cautious and unwilling steps. I moved like a ballerina with cement in her slippers.

The necklace clasp was right next to a reddish-brown sore on the back of his neck. I took two fingers and used them like tongs to slide the clasp further away from the sore. The chain slid right through the center of it but the man didn’t budge. I unfastened the necklace and brought both hands, each one holding a piece of the chain, around to the front his face. He even propped his head up from his left shoulder to make it easier to get around.

I held the chain up in front of him. There was already a pendant on there: a grim reaper holding a scythe.

“Do you want to keep this one on here?” I said.

The man bobbed his head once and I slid the wizard onto the silver chain, making him neighbors with death. The pendants didn’t look good together like that, visually unappealing. They were both so bulky and had to be uncomfortable too, but that’s the way he wanted it, so that’s how I left it.

I reached behind his head and hooked the clasp behind his neck. Then I pulled on the front of his shirt and dropped the silver chain with the two pendants down, inside of his shirt.

“There you go,” I said, bobbing my head once. “Good to go.”

“Thanks, buddy,” he said. It was murmured and mucusy and not easily decipherable, but I am positive that’s what he said. Then he shoved his wrist against the joystick and rolled out of the store.

I turned around and saw Chris coming out of the backroom.

“You done yet?” he said. “I needed to go have a smoke after all that.”

I just kept looking at him.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I wouldn’t have been able to be as calm as you, you know? And besides, they shouldn’t send him in here like that. There should be somebody who goes around and takes care of him.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Somebody should.”

 

 

Adam Matcho write true stories for the New Yinzer. Names have not been changed and distinguishing characteristics have not been altered. They are all just as guilty as Adam.