Vanessa

By Gene Upchurch

Gene Upchurch is a native of Durham and a graduate of the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill. He was a sportswriter and editor in Chapel Hill and Charlotte before embarking on a 28-year career in public affairs, community relations and legislative advocacy for BellSouth and Progress Energy. He lives in Raleigh with Lisa Piercy and their two dogs, Shelby and Hootie.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu Publishing Services
• Release date: Nov 20, 2014
• ISBN: 9781483420684

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UPCHURCH

Copyright © 2014 Gene Upchurch.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted by any means---whether auditory, graphic, mechanical, or electronic---without written permission of both publisher and author, except in the case of brief excerpts used in critical articles and reviews. Unauthorized reproduction of any part of this work is illegal and is punishable by law.

ISBN: 978-1-4834-2069-1 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4834-2068-4 (e)

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Lulu Publishing Services rev. date: 4/29/2016

Contents

Vanessa

Potomac Dawn

The Preacher

The Forest

The Forest Redux

The Twins

Liquor House

Pigtails

Firebug

The right seat

The old man and Sam

Jack in the box

Explanations and Acknowledgements

About the Author

For Lisa

Vanessa

S omething wasn't right. It just didn't feel right. Everything looked ok when I opened the garage door, but I had that feeling.

The usual chirp of the security system didn't greet me when I opened the door into the house. I never leave the system off, so it wasn't working or someone had turned it off. The answer came quickly.

The flat screen was gone. The wires dangled from the wall, and there was a jagged hole where a bolt had been wrenched from the wallboard. The kitchen drawer was open, the drawer where I kept the Glock. It was gone, also. Of course. A quick trip to the bedroom, but I knew the answer already. The cash was gone from the bedside table, the drawer gaping open.

Vanessa, you bitch.

I quickly drove to the Harris Teeter grocery where she scanned and bagged fruits and veggies and beer and toilet paper all day every day. She was there, at her usual lane 7, her brown hair in her eyes like usual.

WHERE'S MY STUFF? My voice was probably too loud.

She kept scanning a customer's apples and spaghetti sauce.

I said, where's my stuff, bitch?

Manager to lane 7. Everyone in the store heard me yelling, and they also heard her calm words over the loudspeaker system.

You stole my stuff! It had to be you!

The manager was at lane 7 quickly. He is a kind gentleman, of Indian descent, who is always at the store, always helpful, always calm, always ready to help with a pricing issue or explain to a 12-year-old that he can't buy cigarettes or help a displaced Australian find some Vegemite. He tried to lead me away from Vanessa's lane, and asked me what was wrong, but I pulled away and glared and pointed at his cashier.

Vanessa or her boyfriend or husband or cousin or some piece of shit ripped off my house!

The kindly manager looked at me, then looked at Vanessa, who was calmly scanning deodorant and an extra-large package of paper towels. The housewives in the checkout lanes looked at all of us.

It had to be her and I'm not leaving until she tells me where I can find my stuff!

The kindly manager's typical day is about spoiled oranges and spills on aisle 3, not an enraged robbery victim, and he calmly explained to me that I needed to leave the store.

But you have a thief at lane 7!

Sir, he explained, the checkout lane at the Harris Teeter is no place to have a fit like this. You'll need to leave right now or I'll call the police.

I will not leave until she tells me who ripped me off and where my stuff is!

The kindly manager spoke a secret code into the little radio he carried, and took my arm to move me toward the front door. I jerked away and rushed toward Vanessa, who was calmly scanning some PBR and checking the customer's ID even though he looked to be about 60.

I wisely stopped short of bumping into Vanessa, who briefly glanced at me, I think, but her annoying haircut covered her eyes.

This woman took advantage of me and stole from me! My voice was shaking with anger, and a drop of spittle dribbled from the corner of my mouth. I glared at Vanessa while she checked out a customer, telling him he had saved $6.30.

The kindly manager spoke again into his little radio and closed lanes 6 and 8 because of all the commotion, and hung a little cord to close Vanessa's lane. The remaining lanes started to back up with shoppers who were irritated and entertained by the spectacle in lane 7.

Her lane closed, Vanessa now had no customers. She put a hand on her hip, and flipped her head to clear some hair from her eyes, and turned to me. I could see part of one eye peeking around the brown hair, and it looked bored and detached. Almost lifeless.

I sucked in a big lungful of air and was ready to let her have it.

Excuse me, sir.

I whipped around. Officer Scroggs was about 5 feet tall, about 4 feet wide, and she recoiled a step or two when I whipped around. Her eyes were filled with fear or piss or something. Her left hand grabbed her Tazer and fired a dart into my chest.

None of my body parts worked, yet I was vaguely aware that the kindly manager needed to wax his floor, because it really felt sticky to my right cheek. I felt like throwing up and I couldn't move. I heard what sounded like a smattering of applause. I felt pressure in my back like a heart attack, but it was the fat knee of Officer Scroggs pinning me to the floor, then the chilly handcuffs.

You're under arrest for trespassing and assault on a police officer.

What? But it sounded more like Whaa.

I was dizzy, nauseous, lying on a sticky grocery floor and under arrest, basically for a robbery at my house.

It was all Vanessa's fault.

*****

The first time I remember seeing her, I was struck by how different she looked from the other cashiers at every grocery in the world.

She was cute enough, with a little attitude. She had a dark complexion, as if somewhere in her ancestry some guy from the Mediterranean or Adriatic had dropped a gene into her pool. She had dark brown hair, parted in the middle and the same length all around that concealed her eyes like the curtain on a stage. Occasionally she would pull back the curtain with a pin, revealing a face that probably would light up with a warm smile if she was doing something besides scanning groceries. It was difficult to tell what was going on underneath her grocery store uniform, but it looked promising.

I'm the kind of shopper who goes to the grocery whenever I think of something I need. Making a list and less frequent trips would be more efficient, but I like the grocery store. I like impulse shopping and checking out other folks and wondering what their story is and why they are at the grocery in the middle of the afternoon. I like looking in their carts to see what they're buying, and seeing if there's something I need, also.

I started going to Vanessa's checkout lane every time I was at the grocery, even if it wasn't the shortest and even if I was in line behind a bumbling dad with a couple of kids and a cart overflowing with cereal, chips and pampers. After a while, she started to notice she had a regular customer. I guess she did, even though I don't know if she could see anything while her eyes were backstage behind the curtain of hair.

Finally, one day, she smiled. Then she laughed! It was enchanting. I was in her line and some poor guy was in the adjacent checkout with his twin boys. The dad was struggling, and Vanessa and I shared a quick laugh about what a goober he was, and I admitted that I could barely survive a shopping trip by myself and would never make it with twins. That's when she smiled, laughed briefly, then turned to the next shopper's cart filled with hamburger meat, toilet paper and ice cream.

I was in her line enough that she finally realized that I was making a conscious choice to be there. She was my preferred cashier, and she seemed flattered. We started making small talk, but quickly, because there always was another impatient customer behind me.

After a few weeks of this, I went to the store when I knew it would be quiet. I got in her line, and immediately some corpulent madam with a huge cart pulled in behind me. I was on mission this day, so I let the madam go ahead of me rather than have her impatiently witness my next big move.

When it was my turn, Vanessa scanned my chicken breasts and salad bags and popcorn. We handled the payment. As I returned the signed receipt to her, I handed