Flash! Fiction by Peter McMillan - HTML preview

14

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“Save my life?” interrupts the old man.

“No. Never mind. I gotta get back to work.”

“Have a good day, kid,” says the old man with a satisfied smile.

As the tall skinny kid comes back to the dairy case, I catch his eye.

“So this special, you have some in one of the coolers in the back?

“I must have been mistaken,” answers the tall skinny kid, shrugging his shoulders. “We’re completely out.”

“But I just heard you say—”

The tall, skinny kid recoils: “Say? I didn’t say anything. Listen, we’re out of stock, OK? Talk to the manager if you want. He just walked in. Over there by checkout 16 talking to the blonde cashier. The big guy in the black leather jacket with the chopper half-helmet under his arm.”

“Frankie!” yells the tall skinny kid. “This guy wants a rain check, and he’s really pissed—er, upset—that we ran out on the first day.”

Standing frozen in place I watch a much older Frankie the Fist on his approach, praying devoutly that he won’t remember me—now bald and wearing an eye patch and a very crooked nose—as the welsher who took him for five grand at the races.

Barrelling in my direction, Frankie puts out a great big arm to em-brace me, or so I think until he pushes his way by me, making his way to the old man in the fedora.