Christopher had been working as a snack attendant at the Ye Olde Bar & Grille for two summers before encountering the singular misfortune of being held up. The small conflagration of deep friers was situated in a fifteen-by-fifteen foot sailor "shanty" half way down the main concourse of Family Towne. The majority of his days were occupied in observing every variety of man, woman and child emit shrieks of joy, excitement, and incontinence as their slippery bodies barreled down heavily lubricated water slides with their arms folded across their chests. Last Tuesday proved slightly more terrifying.
Christopher pulled his sister Karen's dented Volvo into the Family Towne staff parking lot at 9:53. He spent a few moments reaching into the seat behind him uncomfortably, until he found the pleather pirate hat which clearly defined his attachment to the Ye Olde Bar and Grille. Other members of the Family Towne food service team wore different forms of head gear based on their placement: naval canvas hats at Sailor Terry's, explorer hats and monocles at Commander Bobby's, and felt headbands sprouting tentacles at Ursula's Under the Sea Lounge. Christopher slipped on his matching black, pleather vest and swiped his key card in the staff entrance lock. It was a humid mid-August morning, and perspiring patrons from Family Towne's surrounding suburbs swarmed, seeking the gentle, cooling lull of the gargantuan wave pool. They hungered for the moments just before entering the chute of a particularly large water slide; comfortably reclining in a two-seater tube just under the lean pelvis of a Polish lifeguard. Christopher however, had an eight hour stint of tireless frying ahead, and braced himself for the ensuing labor.
He walked around the the eight foot wooden embodiment of a pirate called Jones and slipped in the side door of the Ye Olde Bar and Grille. He bent awkwardly at the sanitation sink, and washed his hands with the harsh brown soap, mandated for food service employee use by the state of Wisconsin. He dried his hands and attached his name tag to left side of his vest just above the nipple. He talked with his co-workers Tricia and Marie about their plans for the evening, and made his way up to the front where the sun burned and dripping, fatigued from lengthy lines, came to inquire about hamburgers and fried cheese curds.
It was early yet, and aside from the desirous eyes of chubby children, Christopher only encountered three customers until noon. As morning traipsed into afternoon, things began to pick up, and in no time beads of Christopher's sweat were dripping into the deep frier. In the space of ten minutes, he had been verbally accosted by a Russian woman and her grandma, spilled half a vat of mayonnaise on his left foot, and been hit in the face with three spit balls, propelled from the unholy straws of a gang of slack jawed miscreants sitting fifteen feet away. As the third spitball assaulted the bridge of Christopher's nose, the crowd at the counter cleared, making his aggressors fully visible in the mid-afternoon sun.
They were a rusty looking crew, four boys between the ages of ten and thirteen. The tallest of them stood five-foot-three, with a curly blond rat tail resting limply between his shoulder blades. His stout body was clad in a pair of red hibiscus print swimming trunks, and blue bands latched the wires of his braces. He raised his straw over his head in triumph as Christopher looked up yelling "Boo Ya Biva Ka Shaw!" His three comrades followed suit, their soft, pubescent bellies jiggling slightly as they thrust their hands upward in excitement. The roundest of them lost his glasses in all the fervor and exposed a sliver of his wide, mosquito bitten butt crack as he bent to retrieve them. "I'm gonna get that asshole", Christopher muttered under his breath as he observed in disgust.
As the rotund youngster secured his glasses with a sharp push up the sweaty bridge of his nose, the boy next to him poked him in the shoulder saying,"Herbert. That guy is looking at you." Herbert lifted his head to meet Christopher's gaze. He rubbed his limp pink nipples tenderly and yelled "Come and get it snack boy!"
The whole gang guffawed raucously as they turned their backs on Christopher and formed a huddle. A moment later they began to advance toward the counter with wicked conviction. as they approached, they each reached behind behind their backs and pulled squirt guns out of their swim trunks. "We filled these up at the urinal." Herbert informed him with a glint of sweat in his eye. He continued, "Give us four orders of cheese curds now or you'll get it right in the face." Incensed, Christopher wrinkled his brow, pursed his lips and walked toward the deep friers, where at least a pound of cheese curds floated atop a vat of bubbling oil.
As he emptied the golden brown contents of the metal basket into four separate paper boats, Christopher heard the tall boy with the rat tail whisper, "I knew he'd cave. What a jerk." Christopher picked up a pair of scissors and inconspicuously slipped them behind his back as he carried the tray of cheese curds toward the counter. The gang licked their lips eagerly as he approached and put down their guns in anticipation of their snack.
As Christopher set the tray down on the counter, he leaned forward and whispered, "Now you're gonna get it assholes." With that he punched Herbert square in the face with such force that he toppled off of his flat, wet feet onto his fat ass with a dull thud. The boys reached for their guns, but Christopher was too fast, having already jumped the counter. He violently stepped down onto Herbert's naked stomach with one foot, holding up the pair of scissors and seethed, "Get the fuck out of here before I kill you." Two of the boys immediately began running, but the tall one defiantly raised his gun and aimed toward Christopher's face. Christopher ducked as a stream of yellow shot over his shoulder, and began to run.
The tall boy turned and ran as Christopher barreled toward him with the scissors brandished high above his head. Christopher did not run long before catching the boy, grabbing him by his rat tail and throwing him to the ground. Herbert could be heard crying loudly thirty feet away, and his sobs pushed his blond friend into a panic. "Please don't kill me! I promise I'll never come back here again. I just wanna live!" Christopher laughed and pulled the boys rat tail tighter in his fist. He raised the scissors and opened them wide, fitting them around the base of the clump of hair. The boy cried silently as Christopher quickly chopped off the rest of his rat tail. "Get the fuck out of here." Christopher whispered in his ear. The boy got up and ran to Herbert who was still lying on the ground. "Let's go!" he yelled, and they both bolted toward the gate.
Christopher put the rat tail in his pocket and finished his shift. When he got home that night he pulled out the ball of hair and carefully crafted it into a glistening blond braid. He pulled out his memory box, kissed the braid twice and laid it inside. He returned the box to its place on the top shelf of his closet, behind his stack of sweaters, turned out the light, and went to sleep.
