The sidewalk was closed again. I guess they are fixing the concrete they poured six months ago. The pipes are always changing. Last year the city got sued for having pipes seventy years out of date, something about the sewage. We’d been over our capacity for a while longer; not sure how much longer.

I went a different way than I normally did. That didn't upset me much. I know some people which it would. I walk into the circle k two blocks from the main city square. I put on my black hat, and take over my jacket revealing my red collared shirt. Recently the store started carrying “nuclear energy”, a foul tasting energy drink with a slight battery acid and blueberry taste. I'd prefer if it was just the battery acid. I fill the ninety-six ounce cup with it and settle behind the bullet proof glass. For some reason the owner insists we have bullet proof glass. The only time we’ve been robbed is by kids for sour patch kids, but I guess he’s from Chicago. He’s lived in south Illinois for long enough you’d think he’d get the picture. I put my login credentials into the cash register terminal. My initials and a twenty-eight character auto generated password. It's written down on a sticky note I keep attached to the lower side of the monitor. There are five other sticky notes.

My stool is gone. It has a pillow I brought from home taped to the top replacing its old cushion, and It's normally in the corner, but I guess it got moved. It's not in the back or isles. Checking the beer cave I notice Dilly sleeping on my stool. He’s wearing a big coat, and his black hat. There’s an open case of Hamm’s at his feet six of the thirty are missing. I take two and return behind the safety of the bullet proof glass.

I didn’t think Dilly was working today. He’s a fine coworker, maybe a little loud, but he’s got a hearing problem, so I don't hold it against him. The schedule on our company site has him listed as getting off 6 hours ago.

Over the course of my shift we had a few obese women getting soft drinks and cigarettes, a horde of muslim women wearing multi-colored and decorated hijabs, and one incredibly weird violin player. He normally came in, but today he was dressed in a paper hat and a wool sweater with massive holes. “Moths ate it while I slept,” he said, “I’ve only got the one, and I can’t let them take the rest!” Everywhere he went he carried his violin and this odd bunny statue. Strings were attached to its limbs and his bow, so when he played the bunny would mimic his movements. He normally would play on the street that's closed. He’d sleep there too when the cops would try to root out the encampment outside of the park next to the greyhound station. He never buys anything, he just comes in to bother me. “I have a secret,” he always says. “I’ll never tell you or another living soul. It's my secret.” I’m not sure why I’m supposed to care about his secret. He smells. He’s poor. He’s boorish, broodish, and can’t play an instrument to save his life. Recently he picked up the trumpet and I couldn't walk down main street without the sound of tortured canaries singing in the open streets. He wandered about the store going in every room aside from the back before leaving. I wondered what he thought of the display in the beer cave.

I should be legally allowed to throw rocks at him and break his instruments, but we live in a cruel world where the good are punished, and their joy is taken away.

My shift ended and I left. The hat came off and I was logged out of the registrar. Finding the quickest path home avoiding main street I went through the park. Finding our busker shrieking on his violin. He’d been playing since I moved here six years ago, but never got any better. Sadly I have to move past him to get home. The homeless encampment littering the park. I tried to avoid looking down or in front of me to not initiate any of the forty panhandlers present. Eye contact is a trigger for them. Even if you just try to read one of their poorly written signs made with papa johns boxes and written with fading markers they will pounce.

His music only got louder, and I broke. I stared. He was sleeping hunched over and the rabbit played. His bow string was moving on the ground and the rabbit played. The joke bow and violin’s strings rustled and sounded. The large black eyes of the rabbit (though now that I’m looking at it, it might be more appropriate to call it a hare. It is more ugly than a normal bunny with longer legs and a mangled face.) seemed to track me. He had the faint smell of yeast about him, but all drunks have it. I passed.

The following morning at work my boss asked me if I had seen Dilly. I lied and told him no. My boss informed me that Dilly was supposed to tonight, and I was supposed to take over for him, but he didn’t show. I guess he needed to sleep more. My stool was still gone, so I went to the beer cave to retrieve it from the forgetful Dilly. It sat in the corner, but the floor was covered in a layer of Hamm’s. Every can was pierced and spilled on the floor. Dilly’s hat was next to the stool’s leg, and all the cans. I asked the boss what had happened in the beer cave. He said he didn’t know, but handed me a mop and told me to clean it.

The overwhelming yeast smell began to slowly dissipate as the concoction of bleach and vinegar cleaning solution took over. I sorted the cans into a corner and trashed them. I moved the stool and picked up the hat, finding it soaked through. “Surely he’d get issued a new one,” I thought to myself before noticing it covered in blood. Dropping it on the floor. I moved closer to Billy’s sleeping corner. The yeast and bleach was itself overwhelmed. Dilly was behind the beer racks, his forehead completely caved in. Dilly was dead. I left the beer cave, the circle k. I moved to the other end of the street and stared at the building. I could hear the violins playing.

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Pub: 07 Apr 2025 23:59 UTC

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