Rich has returned to the home he ran away from six years earlier. He’s back living with his parents, hoping to make amends for the pain he caused them. Two years have passed since returning home. That’s where this story begins.
Episode 18 (Originally posted on the Jittery Goat)
Rich began to feel the weight of the libelous newspaper article. He had put up with the stares and whispers. Rude treatment was becoming severe.
He drove into a filling station. The attendant sat in a chair inside. He waited for the man to pump his gas. The man glared and did not budge. Rich grabbed the nozzle. The man stepped to the doorway.
“We’re out of gas.”
“You don’t mind if I try, do ya?” Rich said.
“As a matter of fact, I do.”
Rich got in his Jeep and drove away. In his rearview mirror, he saw another car drive into the station, and the attendant pumped the gas.
He walked into a restaurant he had been to several times. The hostess told him there would be a long wait.
“I see two tables open,” Rich said.
“They’re reserved,” the hostess said.
“If I remember correctly,” Rich said, “you don’t take reservations. I’ve tried.”
“It’s a new policy,” the hostess said.
“Yeah,” Rich said sadly, “like right now.”
At the grocery checkouts, the cashiers smiled and talked with other customers. As soon as they recognized Rich, the friendly conversations turned into a cold slab of cement.
One night, coming home from Hiram’s office, he stopped at a small neighborhood grocery store. The only person there was a short, round man in his fifties. Rich assumed it was the owner. He grabbed a bag of chips, a prewrapped sandwich, and a soda.
“Dessert,” he mumbled. What shall it be?
“Ah,” Rich said under his breath, “cherry pie. I’ll take it.”
He cradled all the items in his arm and set them on the counter near the front door. The man did not make eye contact with Rich. He tallied up the items on the cash register.
“That comes to $1.49.”
Rich reached for his wallet. “Can I have a bag?” Rich said.
“We’re out,” the man said.
Rich looked to the end of the counter. Several sizes of brown paper bags were stacked there. Rich reached toward the bags. “I’ll have the small one.”
He placed the items in the bag. He laid two dollars on the table. “Keep the change.”
“How does it feel to kill your mother and father?” the man sneered.
“I don’t know,” Rich said. “But I know how it feels to be accused of killing your mom and dad, and everybody thinks you did it.”
Rich grabbed the soda bottle from the bag. He held it high over his head. His face filled with rage. He clenched his jaw.
The man let out a high-pitched gasp. He wrapped his arms around his face and over his head. Rich returned the bottle to the sack.
“That’s how it feels, mister.”
Rich walked out of the store.
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