Candlelight Moon

Circle K

Peggy sat behind the cash register and ripped open a carton of cigarettes. She pulled the long retractable metal sleeve from the rack above her head and slowly filled the tray, pack by pack. She was careful to get them all in straight otherwise, one end might get pinched with the rack snapped back into place and nobody would want to buy a pack with squished or bent cigarettes in it. She ripped another carton and a girl walked into the store. The bell rang its loud electronic peal and by eleven o'clock at night it kind of ran over her nerves like they were bare, exposed wires vulnerable to cold or heat or electricity. Her eyes were tired and dry and the discomfort was made worse by the white fluorescent lights. Everything in the Circle K / 24 Hours looked dingy and remarkably like the tapes you see on the TV news of a surveillance camera during a robbery.

"Can I fill it up on number 4?" the girl asked.

"Regular?" Peggy asked brusquely.

The girl nodded and threw a pack of gum on to the counter. Peggy looked at her. She didn't resent girls like this one. Not now that she was older. At 42 she didn't compare herself so much to others. The girl was young and pretty, in her twenties. Being young wasn't what made her attractive. It was a lightness to her. It was a niceness about her. A niceness that comes from not being hurt so much. Peggy had come to understand—and she curses herself for taking so long to figure it out—but at some point recently, Peggy realized that anybody—anybody—can be pretty and desirable and happy. But, at some point, it's too late. If too much has happened that door closes. Peggy rung up the gas and gum and she tried to get the girl to look her in the eye while she did. Peggy had decided that she would smile at the girl if the girl smiled at her. It would be just a nice gesture. But, it would be a way to take some of the girl and give some of herself back. A part of Peggy was nervous and she thought she'd just smile any way. She should smile–it was actually part of her job responsibilities. But, the girl kept eyeing the scratch lottery cards and at one point while the credit card was processing the girl bent down real close to the glass and tried to make out the directions on one of the scratch cards.

"What's that one there do?" the girl sounded and acted like one of those teenagers on the MTV shows that Peggy's sons watch. Real World or Real Life or something like that. And, this was exactly the type of girl that Mike and Teddy would watch on the big screen TV. The girls would be rolling their eyes while putting on new earrings, gossiping about one of the other roommates or leaning back on a lawn chair by a pool painted toenails and an anklet. Maybe a tattoo somewhere.

"What?" Peggy asked. She deliberately made her voice deep because being as heavy set as she was she didn't want to have a high-pitched, squeaky voice. For obvious reasons.

"Is that a scrabble board game?" the girl said in a high pitched feminine voice, almost a southern drawl to it. It was just the slow, lingering way that young people spoke these days.

Peggy wanted to rip one of the cards and show it to the girl, but she could not rip one of the tickets unless it was paid for. State Lottery Rules and they are serious and tough about tampering with tickets. Peggy could get fired.

"Which one, the one there?" Peggy asked.

"Well it looks like a scrabble board, how do you play it?" And, Peggy imagined for a second her sons, Mike and Teddy with a girlfriend like that. Young, pretty. Happy. Someone who was going to go to college and maybe become a lawyer or own a business. Or, maybe even become what Peggy had wanted to become: a nurse. Not that Peggy didn't like the girls that her boys went out with. She was glad they had someone to love them and weren't lonely. This kind of girl promised an entirely different future. There would be possibilities with a girl like that instead of them marrying someone like Peggy herself: someone who had dreams but no idea how to go about making them happen.