A Box of Weeds

Who Are You?

He never came back from the war.

Not that war. That was a good war. No, the other one. The one no one likes to talk about.

The jungle had stolen him without a trace. She always imagined that he got blown up by the Viet Cong, or taken prisoner and languished in a Vietnamese hell.

Now she’s an old woman working at a shoe store in a crumbling part of the city, old and forgotten. Inside, modern music blares from the contraption the boss calls an MP3 player. She wishes that old age would go ahead and steal her hearing, lord knows it had taken everything else.

She puts on her apron, the name tag clipped in place. “Margie,” it says.

The boss, who looks like he’s twelve, sips some fancy tea and sits with his feet propped up on the counter. He’s the only employee that gets chair privileges. His grandpa owns the joint. The sucker probably doesn’t even get a 401k, but by god, he’s got the right to sit his chubby ass down.

Margie chuckles from her spot on the sales floor. When the bell jingles over the door, she rushes to assist the customer.

Only to come face to face with him.

Her him. The squashed flat by the Viet Cong him.

“Ah good, you’re here. I hope my cousin has been treating you well. I asked him to hire you on. I figured it was the least I could do for...well, you know.”

A gold wedding band shines brilliant and bold on the appropriate finger. He's probably married to some blonde hussy thirty years younger.

She wants to scream, to beat him with a broom handle. However, she remains calm. Serene, even. At least she knew now.

“I’m sorry, who are you?”