by Barry Parham

Created on: June 03, 2009

CLAY PIGEONS

The last day of the month crawled by. It crawled like the afternoon sun crawled, a sun unseen but for its subtle siblings, an army of fleeting images, forming and fleeing along the tier of windshields in the cars parked in front of Taylor's small store. Bright, far too bright, these beacons winked on and off, glaring at Taylor as he walked here and there in his store, going about his business, going about his attempts to avoid his business, going about his efforts to try and ignore the fact that there was no business.

One of the last remaining constants of Taylor's job was the slow but sure approach, every afternoon, of the blinding reflections sired by the sun in the cars huddled across the no-parking zone. Now and again Taylor would stare at those refracted spotlights for as long as he could stand it, then turn his head, close his eyes and watch the ghosts of those spotty lights play across the insides of his eyelids. Playing, like tiny wounded and confused birds, circling, unsure where to go.

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And the children come and go, don't you know.

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Suddenly the door swung open. There had once been an electronic bell on the door that would burble and chime its welcome to each new customer, but that chime had burned itself out in the glory days, those days when it would sing out hundreds of times each week, heralding hoards of descending shoppers. Of that bell there now remained only a very subtle electronic buzzing, something that only Taylor could still hear. He had been in this store far too long. Hours of dulling ritual and rote conditioning caused him to lift his head, almost subconsciously, to gaze toward the front door.

Taylor regrouped, re-entering real (real?) life. He inwardly moaned as he focused upon an image - walking up the aisle was an old man, dressed in a barely baggy blue suit ("natty," Taylor thought, wondering if that was the right word), wearing (sporting?) a perfectly tilted pork-pie hat on his white hair. Full beard, thick eyebrows, large-rimmed glasses which magnified bright and alert eyes. Taylor was reminded of a retired life insurance salesman, copious with canned wit and less-than-captivating anecdotes. He was half-right.

The old man stopped just inside the door, looking over the first bank of shelves, silently reinforcing Taylor's initial impression - here was one more jerk just wasting his time, killing time, marking time. He was half-right.

As the gentleman sidled

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