CHAPTER TWO SAWYER #3
“Do you happen to have anything that doesn’t have ‘Canoodle’ written on the butt?
” I ask the store clerk, holding up a pair of men’s sweat shorts.
I just need something for today—Roarick will be bringing me my things tonight—but there doesn’t seem to be anything in this store that doesn’t beg strangers to “canoodle” my ass.
“Unfortunately, that style is a bestseller for us, so we keep that in stock. Sorry,” the old lady whose feather-gray hair runs all the way past her backside says, eyeing me. “But dare I say, it’s better than what you’re currently wearing.”
I smile at her, despite the jab. “I guess anything is better than this suit, right?”
“An abomination,” she says before turning away and heading back to the counter.
Not a fan.
Noted.
I grab a pair of black sweat shorts with red writing on the butt and then sift through the shirts to find my size in a black shirt with May the Forest Be with You printed across the chest, and under it, Canoodle, California .
That will do. And lucky for me, they also sell sandals, so I don’t have to hobble around in one shoe.
And for being ten dollars and made with tawdry materials, they’re actually pretty comfortable.
I change in the dressing room, remove the tags, roll up my clothes, and then head to the front, where I hand the old lady the tags to purchase.
“Typically, we prefer the customers to wait to remove tags until we can confirm payment.”
“Trust me, I’m good for the bill.” I hand her my credit card.
She just stares at me. “Why on earth should I trust you? I know nothing about you, except that you have a penchant for ruining people’s weddings.”
Ahh, well, that’s the reason for her disdain.
And here I thought I was going to go undetected. Looks like my luck has run out.
I lean forward. “Technically, she was supposed to marry me.”
“Ha!” the lady says, snapping my credit card out of my hand. “In what universe? Simon Fredrickson is a legend among men—you are merely a man with a crook in his nose.”
The fucking nerve.
My hand goes to the small bump on the bridge of my nose, a childhood souvenir from when I fell off my scooter and ran my face into a set of concrete stairs.
As a screenwriter, I’d classify my nose as a charismatic quirk that distinguishes me from the rest. Something memorable that makes me not entirely perfect so viewers can relate to my imperfections.
But our dear shop friend here apparently lacks the sophistication to understand the kind of interesting impact an imperfection can offer an appearance.
“Adds charm,” I say through clenched teeth.
“Not the kind of charm that would win over Annalisa Morton.” Her chin tilts up with her futile insult.
And of course her antipathy only skyrockets my self-consciousness.
“I’ll have you know we dated for five years before she cheated on me with Simon.” Yup, I went there.
She finishes ringing me up and hands me a receipt. “Dear boy, if you are going to stay in this town, it would be best if you didn’t start spreading lies.”
Spreading lies?
She thinks I’m the one spreading lies?
My teeth grind together.
My hand curls out of frustration at my side.
And then I realize... what’s the point?
This old hen is stuck in her ways. No matter what I say, she’s going to trust what she reads on the internet over what I say.
Time to move on.
I take the receipt from her and refuse a bag. “I hope you have a wonderful day... Uma.” I squint at her name tag. With a final tight smile, I leave her store, letting the door slam shut behind me.
I hope Uma finds herself with a nasty dose of canker sores today. Yup, I’m inwardly attempting to hex an old lady while wearing the word “Canoodle” on my ass.
Do we need to have another conversation about rock bottom? Or can we just agree—anything beyond this point is just me firmly situating myself in my own grave?
Rolled-up clothes in hand, I head over to the Beggar’s Hole parking lot, where I spot my car.
I have no recollection of this small town from last night, nothing beyond the neon sign in the bar window reading BAR in bold red. It caught my attention, and the rest was history.
But now that I’m here in the daylight, the entire town comes into frame, from the shadowing trees to the pristine landscaping along the sidewalks.
The buildings give off an old western feel with their false-front architecture and rising facades that shield the gable roofs behind them.
The sides of the buildings are either peeling and worn or covered in chipped brick.
Despite the signs of aging, the fronts are kept in immaculate condition, with crystal-clear four-pane windows and delicately designed storefront names—with the exception of Beggar’s Hole.
And at what I’m assuming is the entrance of the town—given the passing of traffic—rest two large rock formations that seem to cradle it in their stony warmth while sweeping pines stretch toward the sky, offering a dreamy, whimsical escape.
It’s quite breathtaking. So breathtaking it makes me forget Uma’s judgment, or at least not care about it too much.
When I reach my car, I unlock it and toss my clothes into the passenger side. I should really offer up the suit and button-up shirt to some campers for kindling—I can’t imagine ever wearing them again.
I pull out of the gravel parking lot and drive the short distance to the Pine Pantry, which looks more like an old saloon from the outside rather than a grocery store.
A two-story facade, square false front, with an elaborate cornice detail running parallel to the roof.
Not your average grocery store, that’s for sure.
Once my car is in park, I hop out and head right into the nicely air-conditioned space, where I’m transported back to civilization. From the outside, I’d almost believe I’m waiting for Clint Eastwood to step up next to me, loaded gun in hand, only to ask me if I feel lucky... punk .
Answer would be no.
Not in these shorts.