Lorba Will Hunt

Seriously, do NOT open this door

– Management

I read and re-read the sign slowly and carefully in my mind. After looking around the store, I read it out loud like a mother scolding her child; I read it like a police chief addressing a room; I read it like an old man reading a newspaper headline; Finally, I read it like a small-town redneck after a few too many beers. God, that impression is getting good.

When I decided there was no possible way that anyone could misinterpret the sign, I left the supply closet door and began stocking the shelves. Of course, that’s when the store landline decided to ring.

“Hello, Mr. Ivanovich.” I glanced at my watch already knowing exactly what was coming.

“Ahh, Nia!” Mr. Ivanovich exclaimed as if I was the one who called him. “Ehh, Alex call sick, say he has-”

“No problem, Mr. Ivanovich.”

He hung up abruptly like a character from an action movie. I always suspected that’s what he was going for and, somehow, it caught me off guard every time. I didn’t mind taking the double shift. I saw it coming from the moment I clocked in and rang up Alex’s 24-pack of beer before he sped off towards the woods with a four-wheeler strapped to the bed of his pickup truck.

The customers that wander into this liquor store are not your typical consumers of alcohol. The store is located right beside a forest highway in bumfuck nowhere in a tug-of-war between two small towns. So, the local customer-base is almost entirely bored rednecks, aging white guys upset they never ‘made it big’ in high-school football, and seriously dedicated drunk drivers. I can’t begin to count how many times I had to order a replacement glass door. Suffice to say, a lot of these people have demons to drown and have a knack for testing my patience. Being the only Black woman in at least a 15-mile radius always seemed to make it worse.

It was 11:00PM when the door rattled open and Doug, one of our regulars, stumbled in. Doug was a heavyset man in his mid-forties but looked at least ten years older.

“G’d Evenin.’” He drawled like a southern Hitchcock speaking to the bottle of Smirnoff on the shelf.

“Evening, Doug.” I replied and, as I looked up from my inventory sheet, I could tell that something was wrong.

Doug was walking around and scanning the whole store despite knowing the layout better than the back of his hand. He eventually picked his usual poison, brought it to the till and asked:

“So’t’s jus’ you tonight?”

I try to think as little as possible about the customers that come in here, but I never knew Doug to say anything other than “G’d Evenin”, “G’d Mornin”, “Thanks”, and “Sorry ‘bout the door.” Yet here he was looking shifty eyed around the store and getting uncharacteristically personal. It was just enough to draw my eyes momentarily to the baseball bat underneath the counter.

“Yep, just me.” I responded as I rang him up.

He nodded, grabbed his bottle, glanced at the store camera above me, and left. When he reached the front door, however, he turned around and added yet another phrase I’d never heard from him:

“Have a g’d one.”

I turned my eyes to the clock. 11:02PM. Just three more hours until I could get out of here. Doug turned his truck towards the highway leaving the parking lot in a dark cloud intermittently interrupted by the faint flicker of the neon-red sign above the door. Something was not right, and I hoped that it was none of my business. Somehow, I knew that it was.

I started mopping the eternally greasy floor in an attempt to forget about the encounter with Doug. “This Kiss” by Faith Hill played on the radio. I swear they play that every hour. I’d once asked Mr. Ivanovich if we could change the station, but he neglected.

“Are cuztomers.” He stated with an unfitting air of pride, “ezpect a certain, how-you-say… atoms-fear.”

I don’t believe he ever actually met one of our customers. They either didn’t care about the music, didn’t notice, or complained that it was ‘bitch music’.

“Sorry,” I would always reply, gesturing to the table with the radio and paper sign that read ‘Does Not touch’. “Manager’s choice.”

“Between you an’ me,” a young regular once responded in an unnecessary whisper. “You should get on that thin’ and play yer old-school hip-hop, y’knaw’m’sayin’?” He looked at me as if suggesting an elbow and a wink.

“Why would I play hip-hop?” I asked as I scanned his handle of rum.

“Well, ya know, jus’ a suggestion, I mean…” He did that embarrassed redneck thing where they start trailing off, talking faster, and getting quieter.

The radio was halfway through it’s passionate performance of “Red Solo Cup” by Toby Keith when I decided to proceed to party by breaking store rules and turning it off. I had just finished mopping the front entrance when the store landline began to ring. It was odd for Mr. Ivanovich to call when I had actually finished a job.

“Hello, Mr. Ivanovich.” I greeted, this time unsure of why he was calling.

“Nia?”

I recognized the voice and immediately knew something was seriously wrong. Mr. Ivanovich was the only one who ever actually used the store landline.

“Alex?” I asked, startled. “How are you feeling?”

“Uhhh, not good.” Alex fake-coughed directly into the receiver. “Listen, Nia, you need to close the store right now.”

“Okay, why’s that?”

“Well, I’m at the hospital, alright… For my illness.” I heard a cacophony of drunken chatter and jeering in the background.

“Sure.”

“And Keith and his guys were in here.”

My blood ran cold. That was exactly the name I feared I would hear tonight.

“Nia…” Alex continued,  “Doug joined them and they was all talking about Cletus and he said that you was alone at the store and-”

“Okay Alex,” I interrupted, trying to stay calm. “I’ll close the store. Call Mr. Ivanovich and let him know, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Alex,” I just had to ask. “Why was Keith and his gang at the hospital?”

“Uhmm…Uhhh…” He stammered, “Oh, the doctor’s callin’ me – gotta go… Bye?”

It was less than a week ago that Sheriff Hank walked into the store, this time not just to buy alcohol. He used to be a large, imposing figure but late-stage alcoholism had withered him away to a stick-thin man with a gut and a uniform that fit like pajamas from a previous generation. He assured me through a yawn that he had the entire police ‘squad’ dedicated to tracking down the ‘perp’ of the robbery.

“Really, Sheriff,” I asserted. “That’s not necessary. It was Cletus on another drunken binge with a gun.”

Sheriff Hank chuckled and shifted in his boots. “Well, you know. We can’t just go on arrestin’ folks based on people’s word.” He made his way unprompted behind the counter and pointed at the ceiling. “Hey, how about that camera?”

“No, Sheriff, it doesn’t work. I told you that last time.”

“Rats!” he exclaimed much too loudly. “They never make it easy, huh?”

I stared at him, wondering if he was going to explain how the police ‘squad’ was working to track down the ‘perp.’ At the same time, however, I really didn’t care.

“Well.” He yawned and checked his watch but, when he noticed I was staring at him, he quickly pretended to be inspecting a non-existent mole on his wrist. “Well, we’ll let you know if anything comes of this but, as I’m sure you know, cases like this are notoriously difficult to solve.”

“What do you mean?” I pretended to care. There was just something hard to shake about how nonchalant Sheriff Hank seemed to be, even for his usual lazy self. “You can’t get a warrant? The guy’s chronically unemployed and probably sitting on pretty suspect amounts of cash right now.”

He chuckled again and shook his head. “Oh, if only it were that simple, Neo. Folks deal in cash all the time.” He turned to leave, but a fifth of vodka caught his attention. He picked it up and slammed it on the counter.

“Cash or card?” I asked.

“Oh, card.”

When Alex hung up, I looked outside towards the highway. As if on cue, a large pickup truck sped into the parking lot and parked, taking up three parking spaces. It was actually an impressive feat, even for our usual customers. Three camo-covered men, obviously strapped, exited the truck and I recognized them instantly. Garth was a short, large man with a crew cut and a baby face and always carried a very out-of-place crystal-cut glass of rum. Ellis was a tall lanky man with shoulder length dark hair and a handlebar mustache. He was a regular who once came in extraordinarily drunk and asked if I would be his ‘black queen.’ When I denied, he left and, to my knowledge, never returned. Walking towards the store in front of Garth and Ellis was Keith, a tall blonde with broad shoulders, a mouth of mostly missing teeth, and an unlit cigarette that stayed perched behind his ear by sheer tyranny of will. When I saw Keith, my heart skipped a beat. I knew exactly why these men were here and I was determined, at any cost, not to give them the pleasure they wanted.

Keith was one of the few young men that had a real chance of making it out of this little slice of nowhere. As the star quarterback of the high-school football team, he earned himself a scholarship to attend an expensive college in the city. The week that he was supposed to go, however, his dad lost a bar fight by cracking his head open on the sidewalk. With a meth-addicted mother and a brother who was in and out of prison, Keith started working full-time at the lumber mill to provide for what was left of his family. When his brother Cletus never returned after attempting to rob this store, I knew I was the prime suspect on the list of a man who had little left to lose.

Keith threw open the glass door with one arm like half of a cowboy and walked straight up to the counter, his minions following him.

“Can I help you gentlemen?” I asked, my heart pounding in my ears.

“We’re here fer justice.” Keith drawled. His minions laughed, but I could tell it was rehearsed.

“We don’t carry that brand. Sorry.”

Keith pulled the obvious handgun from his crotch and pointed it at my head.

“Maybe ya di’n’t ‘ear me.”

Time seemed to slow down. I glanced at the bat below the counter.

“Okay, Keith.” I started as calmly as I could. “But just so you know, they don’t serve Pabst in prison.”

Keith chuckled and his minions followed one beat behind.

“Ya think ol’ Hank’s gonna book me?” He straightened his shoulders. “I’ll jus’ tell ‘im you swung at me wit’ that there bat behin’ tha counter. Self the fence, pure and simple.”

I was caught between wondering how he didn’t know the phrase ‘self-defence’ and how he knew about the bat behind the counter when it hit me: The only other redneck who was behind this counter was none other than Sheriff Hank himself. That crooked bastard.

“What do you want?” I already knew, and I knew I couldn’t convince him of the truth.

“I want yer life.” He drawled like an actor going overboard. “An’ first. I wanchu t’admit ya done killed my brother.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I breathed. The bat somehow looked further away then it did just a few seconds ago.

Keith slammed the table with his free hand. “An’ who’s the sheriff ta believe? Me or some nigger?” His minions snickered. I was not going to give them what they wanted. “Cletus said he was comin’ here that night! He never returned. Only one coulda dones it was you, It’s law-jick!”

“Keith, look-” I began but, just when I realized I was making the mistake of trying to use ‘law-jick’, Ellis casually interrupted:

“Hey Keith, buddy, I’m gon’ get us a pack a P-B-R.”

“That dawg will hunt!” Keith smirked at me and cocked the gun with a click.

Ellis stumbled his way to the cooler but stopped right before the supply closet. He narrowed his eyes at the sign and read it slowly and out loud.

“Seri’sly, don’t go inta this closet, management…” He turned to me with an eyebrow raised, “Hey how comes you guy’s done put up a sign tellin’ yerselve’s not ta go in this here room?”

I seriously could not underestimate these people’s intelligence. “Ellis, seriously, don’t-”

“They prolly got a big ol’ safe in there.” Keith interrupted; his eyes still fixed on mine. “Open it up, Ellis.”

Ellis turned the doorknob and pulled. Just as he did, the door flew open with a loud bang. Ellis flew backwards right into the table with the radio, hitting his head on the play button. “This Kiss” by Faith Hill filled the room and, from inside the closet, a fluffy dog as large as a grizzly bear emerged snarling and bearing six-inch fangs.

“What ‘n tarnation?” Keith and Garth cried in unison, turning towards the beast.

The dogbear roared and pounced on Ellis’s frail neck, ripping and pulling it apart like disappointing pork. Keith and Garth screamed and emptied their handguns at the beast. The dogbear only snarled louder. I saw an opportunity, grabbed the bat, and swung it right into Keith’s face, knocking him over and dislodging what was left of his teeth. The dogbear took this as a cue to start attacking Keith. Before any of us knew it, the beast was tearing into his neck with even greater fervency than it had used against Ellis.

“Jesus Christ!” Garth yelled as the last remainder of his gang. Without dropping his crystal-cut glass, he drunkenly made his way towards the door but slipped on the wet floor at the last second. The glass shattered into a million pieces as Garth looked up at the huge animal pleading in the way I imagine pigs look when they’re about to be slaughtered.

Just before the dogbear descended upon Garth, the store landline began to ring. Of course, Mr. Ivanovich had to call in the middle of a job. I picked up the phone.

“Hello, Mr. Ivanovich.” I greeted as Garth’s screams and Faith Hill’s singing provided my backup vocals.

“Ahh, Nia!” He exclaimed as if surprised. “Ehh, Alex call. He say you need, how-you-say… close ze store?”

“Well, Mr. Ivanovich. The situation is…” I glanced at the scene before me. Three mangled bodies lay in bloodied heaps as the dogbear continued feasting on Garth and wagging it’s tail in time with the music. I glanced at my watch. 1:30AM. “It’s dealt with, but… it’s Lorba, Mr. Ivanovich… Again.”

“Oh dear, my Lorba.” He paused. “I many sorry, Nia, Alex vill into store in half hour. He can-”

“It’s no problem, Mr. Ivanovich. I can take care of it.”

He hung up, somehow to my surprise. I scanned the store. Lorba sat near Garth’s pulpy body sitting, panting, and obediently looking right into my eyes. I sighed, grabbed a sharpie, tape, and printer paper, and wrote on the supply closet door:

Everyone, DO NOT open this door!

The management thanks you.

“A’right, Lorba, git!” I commanded, pointing towards the supply closet door. God, that impression is getting really good.