A Club Called Heaven

My next encounter with Suitcase Girl came a while later.

At the grocery store.

Although being the only child at home had its perks, like having your own room and not having to wrestle for morning bathroom privileges – even if Gee has no upper body strength. But it also meant I’d have to do more shit around the house, like groceries. I fucking hate grocery shopping.

But I had to do or mom would get pissed. Scary mom is scary.

So, I forced myself to my shitty car and to the shop down a couple streets. I walked in through the entrance and grabbed a rickety cart, and patted down my torn-up jean pockets for the list I could’ve sworn I’d put somewhere.

Aha! I’m a fucking genius.

With my list now in hand, I went down the aisles, one by one, checking off all the essentials we needed…and some non-essentials.

AKA, I managed to make it through the comic aisle with only half my cart full. I looked down at my cart and ticked them all off; eggs, milk, bread, sugar, coffee. Yep, all there. I started down for the check-out. I passed all the aisles again and glanced at all the other shoppers. I always hated when they would smile at me, it’s like “Do I fucking know you?” If I don’t give people I know any emotion, why would I give you – a random stranger – any.

The world, I’m telling you.

And I managed to avoid all the creepy /random strangers’ acknowledgement; I came across a face I could’ve sworn I’d seen before. A face that could’ve belonged in magazines, but I would learn she found too flawed to show in public in times.

A face so perfectly freckled, framed by a halo of long brown hair with a certain curl to it that I’d spend the rest of my days persuading her was beautiful, a face that beheld pair of totally recognizable blue eyes, a face that would continue shocking me even ages later. Suitcase Girl.

The crash snapped me out of it, the crash that you heard in sitcoms when the retarded children were let loose at the supermarket and put it through hell, only to have it be a humorous lesson to the television viewers, a tower of sardine cans going downhill fast.
Reflexes kicked in a bit too late, and they crashed down on me. A shower or fucking tins isn’t the most pleasant thing in the world, mind you. I covered my face with my black-clad arms and flinched. When my eyes opened again, all the random strangers were staring but so was she. I could feel the blush form my beanie to my Converse.

Completely embarrassed, I bent down to start picking up my disaster. I flung the first few into a pile before I felt a hand on mine. Because I am a retard, I expected to see Suitcase Girl smiling down at me, but instead I found the store manager. The fifty - something – year - old fucking ugly - ass store manager. She gave me a look that made me relinquish the sardines and walk away to pay my goods.

Keeping my eyes on the linoleum, I could feel all of Belleville’s nosey-ass eyes on me. I finally paid and wheeled my cart out with what little dignity I had left only to crash into something else.

Suitcase Girl.

Fuckmylife, fuckmylife, fuckmylife, fuckmylife, fuckmylife, fuckmylife, fuckmylife, fuckmyli –

“Oopsie, daisy”, she said I could’ve sworn I heard fucking angels sing.

She smiled and I turned into a puddle of goo but you couldn’t tell of course, “Oh, its okay. It was my bad, sorry.”

Her eyes glittered (yes, fucking glittered!) in the sun, with bits of amber shining through her cornflower blues. She tweaked her lips and walked off. I kept looking of course – I’m a man.
She had on a Bob Dylan T-shirt with flannel over it – again, but this time she wore little jean shorts. Her hair swished down her dainty waist as she walked on her combat boots. She was fucking gorgeous, goddammit.

But, because your truly is a moron, I stood there, cart in hand. By the time I gathered the IQ points to realize I should do something if I fucking wanted progress, I saw her swish by in her orange Beetle, the Cure blasting out her tinted window.