Chapter 8 #3
“Oh,” Sofia waved me off, giving me a nudge on my shoulder, “they’re not sealed when they arrive. They’re just slipped through the mail slot like that.”
I looked closely at the letters. None of them seemed to have ever had a fold crease. Someone had been writing love letters to Shirlene and had simply been sliding the page into the mail slot—hoping Sofia would help them find their owner.
Odd.
“When I say they’re addressed to ‘Shirlene,’ I mean the opening lines of each letter,” Sofia continued. “But so far, we haven’t been able to figure out who she is or where she may be. I guess we’ve all just been enjoying reading about the love this person has for her.”
“Oh.”
“I want to meet the woman who inspires such devotion.” Sofia sighed dreamily.
“Yeah,” I said, “uh, it seems like the guy who wrote the letters is, uh, obsessed.”
“Or gal.” Sofia nudged me.
I turned to find her winking at me.
I smiled. “Yeah. I guess ‘or gal.’ But isn’t there a signature at the bottom of the letters?”
A quick scan of the letter in front of me, then the letters on either side of it told me that the sender intended to keep their identity private. Sofia saw me looking for the answer to my question, so she didn’t bother responding.
“One day,” she was sighing dreamily again, “we’ll all know who Shirlene and her mystery admirer are—and hopefully they’ll fall madly in love.”
“Maybe.”
I didn’t know what else could be said about the letter, Shirlene, or her mystery guy-slash-gal.
So, I held the letters up and jiggled them at Sofia once more.
With a nod of my head, which she returned, I headed for the door.
When I stepped outside into the warm June air, and I was closing the door behind myself, I glanced over my shoulder to see Sofia still staring up at the wall wistfully.
People get so caught up in love stories. I thought. Especially unrequited love stories.
The people of Possibly were getting stranger and stranger.
Everywhere I went in the tiny little town I seemed to encounter another person who didn’t quite have their head screwed tightly onto their neck.
My mom used to describe flighty or airheaded people as being “a taco short of a fiesta platter,” and the people of Possibly were helping me to better understand that saying.
I probably should text or call Mom later.
“EMMMMMM-ILLLLLLLLL-EEEEEEEE!”
I clenched up at the sound of a guy screaming from the direction of the creek. I turned just in time to see the same teenage guy from the day before standing on the handrail of the wooden bridge, his arms spread out wide. Then he was falling backwards.
What is going on here?
My eyes darted around, looking for any other person who might have just witnessed the insane teenager jump off of the bridge for the second time in two days.
A flash of neon green caught my attention and I realized that Levi Lee was in front of Starbuck’s again, pretending to be the hull.
When he noticed that I was looking over at him, he began to wave happily.
Or, it looked like a happy wave—arm held aloft, swinging about lazily.
Levi Lee must have realized that he had broken character once again, because he suddenly stopped, froze in place, then dropped his arm to his side.
“Shit.” His voice drifted over from the pirate ship.
“Sorry!” I hollered back.
“It’s all right! I’ll get the hang of this!”
Quickly, I gave him an encouraging wave before glancing over at the bridge. There was no point in checking on the teenager. Obviously, Levi Lee had seen the events unfold as well, and he didn’t seem concerned. Besides, the teenager was becoming a pro at jumping off the bridge. He was probably fine.
The envelopes that I still held in my hand got folded in half so I could stuff them in my back pocket, and I took off down the road to Grandy’s Auto.
It was less than twenty yards away, directly down and west from the post office, so there was no chance of getting lost. Of course, everything in downtown Possibly seemed to be “just ten or twenty yards away,” so if you got lost in Possibly, something was wrong with you.
Within a minute, I was walking up to the front of Grandy’s—three pumps, an air compressor, some squeegees—your standard small-town gas station.
The building itself looked to be just big enough to have a check-out counter, a few shelves for snacks, and a few coolers for drinks.
The place looked fairly modern from the outside.
The pumps accepted debit and credit cards and all of the equipment looked new.
Around the metal awning that went over the pumps, and was attached to the brick building, all of the paint looked fresh.
Maybe the designated town sign painter comes by Grandy’s?
Outside of the store, on two cinderblocks stacked on top of each other next to the front door, a man was sitting, staring off into space.
Dusty blond hair and a beard of the same shade that was trimmed neatly to his face made him look young.
However, the crinkles around his eyes and mouth let me know that he was probably older than I thought.
The fact that he was wearing bib overalls with no shirt underneath, and I could see a sprinkling of gray hairs on his chest, confirmed that thought.
In fact, that’s what the man was focused on while staring out at nothing.
He was lazily scratching at the hairs on his chest as he stared and sat.
I’m sixteen years old, so I’m not, like, the most experienced person in the world.
However, I’ve travelled enough with my mom across the country to know when someone should be treated politely, yet given some space.
So, I gave the man a nod—just in case he noticed me—before stepping past him to open the door and go into the store.
He didn’t seem to notice my greeting. He just kept scratching at his chest and staring.
Fine by me.
Inside of Grandy’s, I had the exact opposite experience I’d had in the post office.
Everything looked modern, nice and clean, but it was stifling warm.
There were a couple oscillating fans hung from the all four corners of the room near the ceiling, ‘stirring the stink around,’ as my mom would have said.
However, it didn’t seem that Grandy had turned on the AC.
I could see vents in the ceiling as I strolled through the tiny store, but they could have just been for heating purposes, I supposed.
As I had suspected, there were exactly two coolers in Grandy’s Auto.
And he didn’t really keep a variety of drinks stocked.
What he had, there was a lot of it, but the choices were limited.
Coke, Sprite, Mountain Dew, and something called Mello Yello.
There wasn’t even a forty ounce of beer in sight.
In fact, there wasn’t any alcohol in sight—which was kind of strange for a gas station.
I selected a Mountain Dew—because, caffeine and sugar—and I shuffled over to the check-out counter tucked away in the corner next to the door.
When I had entered, I hadn’t seen Grandy or anybody working, but I assumed they’d hear customers enter and come check things out.
Maybe they were in the bathroom or something?
“Hello?” I asked of no one.
A glance in the direction of the bathrooms off the back of the place let me know they were unoccupied. They were just closet-size rooms and both doors were open. I could have easily seen if someone was in there…relieving themselves.
“Uh…Grandy?” I asked again.
I’m not sure how long I stood at the check-out counter, waiting patiently for Grandy to show up because I hadn’t brought my phone with me, and there didn’t seem to be a clock anywhere in the store.
The fact that all I wanted to do was buy a soda and a pack of smokes for Jack—which, I suddenly realized, I didn’t know which brand he smoked—frustrated me.
A guy having to wait so long to make a seven- or eight-dollar purchase was annoying.
Without any other option, I set the Mountain Dew on the counter and walked back to the front door.
“Hey,” I said to the guy on the cinderblocks as I cracked the door, “do you know where Grandy is? Or someone who works here?”
“I’m…Grandy,” the man responded slowly.
He didn’t look away from whatever he was staring at, and he didn’t stop scratching his chest.
“Oh.” I frowned. “Okay? Well, uh, I’m ready to check out, sir.”
“Whatchu…tryin’…to…buy?”
I glanced over at the counter where my soda sat.
“Uh, a twenty-ounce Mountain Dew,” I said. “And I’m supposed to pick up some cigarettes.”
Grandy, the chest-scratching sky-watcher seemed to think on this for a moment.
“You…Jack’s…boy?”
“I’m his stepson.”
“Grab…him…a…pack of…them…Marlboro Reds,” Grandy’s drawling answer came. “Shorts…none…them…fancy…things.”
“Okay?”
“Then…come…on…out…here.”
Wow.
Possibly, Texas. Possibly this was the strangest damn place I’d ever been to in my entire life.
Instead of asking Grandy further questions—it didn’t seem a great day for that—I went back to the check-out counter and grabbed my soda.
I searched the rack of cigarettes behind the counter and found a pack of Marlboro Reds.
I wasn’t sure if he liked the hard back or soft pack, so I went with the hard pack. Better safe than sorry.
When I got back to the door, I pushed it wide and stepped back outside to deal with Grandy.
He, as expected, was still staring and scratching.
I wasn’t even sure he was actually seeing whatever he was staring at in the distance.
A quick glance over my shoulder provided a view of grass and trees beyond. Nothing all that interesting.
“How much do I owe you?” I asked, turning back to Grandy. “Just the soda and smokes, please.”
“You…just tell…Jack…to get…me…next time,” Grandy drawled. “I ain’t…feelin’ like…I want…to…run…the register…today.”
Is this guy okay?
“Are you okay, sir?” My thought slid right from my lips.