The Devils on My Shoulder Demand Merino Wool Socks—A.T.Bennett
Before the leaves changed this September, I had to find a new job. Did I want this change? Oh, heck no! Not even remotely. But sadly, I live in an expensive town, chock-full of the most wonderfully overpriced cafes and sushi restaurants…
Also, rent is exorbitant and making it is a powerful motivator!
So I got a job.
Something simple. As I said in my interview—I wanted a job where I could clock in, do the work, and then leave it all behind when I clocked out. I’m a creative person and wanted enough brain goo to manage my various extracurricular artistic pursuits.
Luckily, the Job Gods were smiling down at me, and I found something that fit the bill.
On my first day there, I was given the "grand tour", so to speak. The main floor sported a medium-sized shopping area reserved for customers. There was a standard, 70s-era break room with cupboards filled with questionable Tupperware. A death-trap staircase, if you have need to throw yourself down something steep. Much merchandise has been lost in the four—yes, four—separate warehouse zones. Outdoor loading bay too, because the amount of product this store moves in just underwear alone is INSANE.
Lots to learn. I was pumped!
Unfortunately...I am a writer.
I'm thus cursed to walk through a normal 9-to-5 life with muses that include: a kleptomaniac raven, a vindictive seagull, a moustache-twirling badger, and a raccoon with a crowbar. While the manager was walking me through security procedures, those inner troublemakers were busy whispering loopholes into my ear. Why?
Because I am a writer of mysteries, and a good helping of my characters are thieves. I guess in a bizarre way, it’s only natural that I'm seeing pilfering possibilities everywhere in my employment life.
(Not that I needed much encouragement to plot, scheme, and connive! Heck, on the second day in one of my new coworkers kindly pointed out the security camera dead spots with zero prompting from me!)
But we can't help it, can we? Writers—of any genre, I suspect—are hard-wired to view the world just a touch differently.
[I sometimes wonder if romance writers are genre cursed too… Do they notice all the sweet nothings that exist out there, like lingering glances over a cup of cocoa. The hugs from friends that linger just a touch too long. Do they note what song is playing on the radio whenever a (insert ideal main character trope here) person walks into their line of sight?]
Now, full disclosure in case you live under a rock, mysteries involve the odd murder… or several. Which is decidedly less slap and tickle compared to romance, and more stabbity-stab-stab.
Do I find my thoughts drifting to the odd (perfectly justifiable) homicide when I’ve got a line of cranky customers ten deep, a sprinting shoplifter at my six, and the phone is ringing off the hook? …. Naaaah. Okay, okay, fine. Two months in, yes. I can confidently say, “I know where to hide the bodies.” On the flip side, I also know where the killers lurk, too. Whenever I'm on closing detail, I often find my eyes drifting to those little forgotten hideaways in a store. You know the ones. Those tucked away spaces no one bothers to check—but would be perfect for an axe-wielding maniac to linger in.
I suppose my point is this: even when I’m running around—helping customers whilst balancing a pile o’ jeans the size of the Leaning Tower of Pisa—I’m still a writer.
I will never NOT be a writer.
Sure, circumstances beyond my control mean I’m currently stuck in retail hell for thirty-seven-plus hours a week, but in the background I’m constantly observing. I’m collecting characters, quirks, and stories like they're rare Pokemon!
... Speaking of...
Early this week I was told that someone reported a bloody handprint on the men’s changing room walls. Yup! I haven't even passed my three-month probation yet, and there it was. A bloody handprint.
Like a split personality case, I was of several minds about the discovery. Dear God, WHHHHHYYYY?! being first, and most sensibly, foremost. There was also Neat! and Ooooh, can you see the pretty fingerprints? Also, what on earth was the lead-up to that decision-making process?
Finally, there was Jane-Average, 9-to-5er, me. My muses may be all a tizzy, but I had a sinking suspicion that I'd be the one charged with handling the disinfecting if I didn't find a good hidey-hole. (Spoiler alert—my wobbly butt did not move fast enough.)
This, on the surface, totally sucked. But it was also a gift! I left work with my creative mind buzzing—for it touched all my happy buttons. Stories, both short and long, took root. The baddies ran the gamut from crazed 80s serial killers to professional assassins. (Can you imagine a story about someone paying a million dollars for a hit on a minimum wage janitor?) And, because I’m also a bit of a classic horror gremlin, I added classic side adventures involving Boxing Day zombies and cursed bloody prints that appear... seemingly randomly… on pay-day Fridays.
When I got home, I jotted them all down, for those rainy days where I’m itching for a plot to fall into. That, thankfully, will be enough to content the wannabe product-pinching muses and inner chainsaw-wielding maniacs.
…For now…
… …. …
….3 days later…
HOLY BLOODY HANDPRINT BATMAN!
He’s back! Just WOW.
Because I turned the corner at the right, or wrong, time, I saw the Man with the Red Hand try to sneak off with some expensive coveralls. Sadly, he is not a ghost (sorry, paranormal sub-genre musings), or a highly trained assassin (dang it!). But that’s all right! At least I can add a physical description to my notes.