The sun slid between lavender rainclouds and fell into the distant grasses and hills and the boy stood at the front door window of the East Side Grocery watching his father walk home through the thick Missouri air, one hand in his pocket, the other swinging keys against his hip. Air hissed through the seams of the cracks in the window that was broken the night before and was now patched together with cardboard and tape until the replacement glass arrived the following morning. Someone broke in last night with a jagged piece of cinder block, unlocked the door and made off with the store's thick, leaden receipt box.
East Side's customers routinely paid for their purchases exclusively with credit, and receipts of their purchases and total debt was accumulated within the slate-colored box. The box was found early that morning, three miles away in a culvert off Rockville road, receipts and ledger intact. Presumably, the thief stopped to revel in his earnings only to find his hoard consisted of a pile of paper and scribbled notes, and was not, as he had hoped, a Cashbox. The box was found upended and closed amongst the tall stretch of crabgrass, none the worse for wear.
Once the boy's father rounded the corner, he turned and set to sweeping. He started at the back doors and worked forward, in a bit of a rush to get home in time for dinner and The Shadow, but not in such a rush that he didn't do a thorough job, lest he be confronted with his father's glare the following day. As he bent to the dustpan, the sound of paper crinkling skittered around a corner.
He turned. His white Converse squeaked on the smooth linoleum. The sound stopped, started again. He stood and moved to the front of the store, wary of the cat that was bound to burst from whatever the hell it was doing and race for the door. The crinkling redoubled, toppled, and spilled along the floor. Packages of Hydrox cookies slid from the aisle, and the boy paused to cursed at this new damn mess. He stepped over the few packages and turned the corner to the aisle and the fallen Hydrox display.
To this day, he still hopes that when he rounds that corner in his memory the Hydrox Destructor is a cat. But it wasn't.
Amidst the shiny tangle of plastic packaging, one entire package of cookies was held fast between the jagged ivory fangs of a demon that seemed belched forth from some twisted, horrifying rodent hell. Nearly the size of a small cat, the rat stood and stared at the boy, steadfast and evil in its ownership of that pile of cookies. The boy stomped the floor and pounded the cookies with his broom, shouting threats at the titan, and yet it remained, defiant to this pitiful human's display. The boy was out of his depth and had absolutely no idea what to do about this marauding rodent. Setting a trap at this point seemed pointless, nevermind that you were putting your limbs at risk whenever you attempted to set one of the damned things. The setting of the rat traps was a job he left exclusively to his father.
He looked about the store hurriedly for something, anything that may help. Then, it moved. It moved forward, at the boy, and the boy stepped back. This contest of wills was over, and they both knew it. The rat turned and headed along the aisles to the back door and the grain silos from whence it came, the package of Hydrox hissing along the floor as it passed into the gloaming. The boy watched it pass in muted horror, righted the display, and finished his sweeping. He hung his apron on the hook inside the front door, locked up, and set for home.
He walked a bit quicker that evening.
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