Jim Gore

1 December 20XX

Convenience Store

THE MIRROR

“Use the mirror,” Austin reminded me. On the store’s back wall, there’s a mirror overlooking the aisles. This helps keep track of customers. I feel like that’s half of what you do in retail: watch other people. You watch them, you wait for them, you look for them when there’s nothing there. You trick yourself into thinking they’re there when they’re not.

So, use the mirror right, and you can see everyone. You know if they’re coming towards you or away from you; you’ll know how many of them there are; how far away they are, and so on. Maybe that makes me a professional voyeur, getting paid gas money to watch people buy shit. It ain’t a bad gig.

It’s different when you know someone, though. It’s different when a friend, relative, peer, or whoever comes in. There’s already a conflict between who I am at home and what I become here, but it’s all the more complicated when another side of me gets involved. The persona I put on in the circle doesn’t exist here until Shingo comes reeling into my store. Don’t tell anyone what I do here.

Don’t tell anyone the things I do for others.

He’s looking for the sexual wellness section (down aisle twelve on the right). That kid never seemed to like me. I’ve been in close proximity with him for four years now and I know for a fact Lisa didn’t see him any different. But it finally happened. She must’ve been right. She’s got more color in her cheeks, her clothes look cleaner, she has more clothes. Yeah, I noticed.

We talk about him. Lisa started texting me about him unprompted. She used to ask if I could give her a lift, and I obliged her. And then eventually she started asking to use my washer and dryer, and I hardly knew her, but whatever, “Sure.” We did that for awhile, became tight, until we stopped. I didn’t know why, and I still don’t, but I have a better idea now. There’s a plan, I think.

It’s extortion. I think it’s funny. She’s asked me for ideas, for “exchanges,” for “services” she could “provide”. Some underwear for a decent meal, a nude for a shower, a handjob for some new clothes, it’s capitalism. An economic relationship of costs and benefits, a vaguely sexual transaction for money, or resources, or human dignity, sacrificed in one regard to fulfill another.

It’s like she desexualizes herself for survival. It’s like she distills her bodily functions of urges, desire, lust, whatever, and pawns it all off for some poor bastard’s allowance. That’s a dark way of thinking about it.

I tell myself it’s a good trick when it probably isn’t. I think it can be liberating when it won’t, ever, and nothing improves. It isn’t sustainable. Who is Shingo in private? What does it say about me for letting her do this?

I saw her cry one time. I hugged her once, and why am I telling you this? What does it matter to you? We aren’t in love. This isn’t a fucking love triangle.

No, this isn’t a shoujo romance manga. We’ve never kissed, no “I like-like you” or any awkward run-ins. She came to me looking for help, and so I did, and still try.

Shingo-san saw I was taking her home one day.

“No, I can take you home, Lisa,” he said. And she had this look in her eyes like I’d only seen a couple of times: that peculiar, devious look.

“Well… if you don’t mind,” she said.

“Of course not!”

“I mean, I could always call my parents…”

“No, it’s no problem!”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” he said, “Of course.” She was waiting for me where she always waited. She’s never told me why she won’t call her dad. Her answers to those kinds of questions are vague, but the way she looks, acts, speaks, makes the implications scary. I only hope it isn’t worse than I think.