Business is brisk at The Salvation Army store on Sundays. It wasn’t always this way, hell it wasn’t even open on Sunday before I offered to put in the time. You see, the shop is a nondescript building that faces another nondescript building and they’re separated by an over-sized walkway. The only other business of note open on the sabbath is a bottle store. I happened to grab some vodka before the football games and noticed the large amount of people loading up. Many of them were a certain kind of people. My kind of people.

I suggested to the world-weary and harried spinster that ran things that I could, perhaps, maybe run a Sunday shift. Hell, I could do it on my own-all she had to do was open up for me. Well, it didn’t take long for her, maybe just three weeks, to decide that missing the beginning of Coronation Street wasn’t worth the hassle. So I got the keys just as I had planned. Of course I was the only one working as well. And sales increased overall by 15% because, as I suspected, a part of the demographic that buys alcohol early on Sunday morning also happens to shop at a used goods store. Sometimes a plan is just that easy to put into action and, you know, execute.

A guy by the name of Brad started stopping by and I’d pour him a coffee and we’d chat away. The cashiers desk was elevated so that I could survey the entire store quite easily all while ‘flapping gums’ as they say. Brad’s clothes were worn but not raggedy so I guessed he’d only recently ran into a rough patch. He eventually made it known that he was working in a wrecking yard and busted up his leg in an accident. Some nasty hospital fees (no insurance of course) and a later infection that sent him right back into care for two weeks put an end to him having an address.

“You know what I miss most about having a place?”, he asked one day. “Huh, no idea”. “It’s being able to sit back today with a cold beer and just relax and watch football.” Of course his team was the Browns-it couldn’t have been any other. The gears started doing their calculations…

The following week I closed the store one hour early so that we could catch the 4 o’clock games. There was a dark dive bar that I knew, the sort of place where everyone is a serious drinker and everyone minds their own business or they’re out the door real fast. Brad drank down that first glass from the pitcher in two gulps. Yeah, as I thought, he liked his beer and didn’t get to drink much these days. I offered to buy him a burger or something but he wanted that alcohol to sit on his empty stomach for awhile. He entertained me with stories of Peyton Hillis, Dennis Northcutt (Dennis Northcutt?) and ‘that son of a bitch’ Butch Davis.

By seven it was time to go because he was sloppy and all over the place. I could feel a few eyes looking in our direction and that’s all it took. I insisted that he grab a spot on a park bench and sober up a little before heading to the hostel where he was staying. He was amenable. Things happened fast. I stuffed a rag in his mouth when his head lolled back, punched him hard in the stomach to knock the wind out of him and then I knew he was mine.

Heading back to the car I was worried about all the spatter on my clothes should someone happen by but it was a sleepy Sunday night and there was only  dogwalker at a safe, unidentifiable distance. Business is still brisk at the store, might stick around a bit longer. Oh, almost forgot-Goodnight, Brad.

TO THE GAME!

Cowboys/Saints:

Dallas wins 20-10 as OC Kellen Moore continues to weave his magic spells over DAK!, Amari and Zeke.

Have at it gringos!