The Shiny Happy Corner Store

Jacqueline Juniper stood on the steps outside The Shiny Happy Corner Store and smiled smugly. She breathed in the fresh spring air and felt even more important than usual. Her skin lapped up the warm 11:15 sunshine, and she thought about the previous twelve months. Her evil step mother had died a year earlier, the same week as Margaret Thatcher, just after April fools’ day. She had begrudgingly gone to the funeral of the deceased witch to check that she didn’t jump out of the coffin before they smothered it with soil. She hated the old bag as much as she hated her real mother, but they were both gone now, and she was free to spend the dubiously acquired inheritance however she wished. She had run out of relatives to extract cash from, but she was now the proud owner of a beautiful age-of-Aquarius retail outlet with luxurious flat above, and soon the profits would start rolling in.

The name of the shop came to her in a dream about Micheal Stipe of R.E.M.. He’d chosen the establishment as the setting for his forthcoming video. For 7 hours, he danced around the aisles, filling his basket with ethically superior unadulterated goodies, stopping only to peck her on the cheek and big her up. She had no idea how ridiculously pathetic her vision sounded.

She was starting to regret the previous day’s over indulgence at the grand opening, and she spent much of the morning daydreaming about teetotalism. She went into the kitchen to pour the last of the organic vodka into the sink. As the clear liquid disappeared down the plughole, she found herself wondering if organic alcohol was really any different from normal alcohol. She laughed at the preposterous idea and started craving nicotine. She’d given up smoking a month earlier, and her arms were aching from the endless back patting. She went back into the shop to look for a cancer stick alternative and chose a pack of Honeycock, macrobiotic friendly filter tips; the purpose of the filter was anyone’s guess. She grabbed a box of eco friendly matches and returned to the kitchen to light up.

Taking a drag from the exciting new brand, she pulled a face and started to cough, remembering that she hated herbal cigarettes. She stubbed the offence thing out in the sink and wondered what would be the best flavour to take the taste away. On the work surface by the kitchen door, she noticed another bottle of organic vodka; she’d forgotten about that one. She opened it and took a swig to wash away the Honeycock residue in her throat and on her tongue.

Forgetting her new important role, she sat down on a chair behind the counter and drifted off. Then ding! Her first customer pushed open the door, and she opened her eyes. It was a mother, and a child of about 5, looking for a snack. They didn’t really use that kind of shop, but the boy had spotted the bags of crisps by the counter, and they thought they’d give it a go. Rummaging through the crinkly little packages, they both looked unimpressed.

‘Have you got any normal crisps ?’, the mother asked.

‘We have rock salt and balsamic vinegar flavour’, she replied unhelpfully.

The indignant look on the boy’s face didn’t budge.

‘Camel cheese and sun dried onion’ she continued, as the boy tugged on his mother’s clothes and started to whine.

‘How much are they ?’ asked the mother, keen to make progress.

’Two pounds forty’, said Jacqueline.

The woman closed her purse and tried to not faint.

‘Two pounds forty ?’, She exclaimed, ‘For a bag of crisps ?’.

She could get a whole sackful for less than that.

’They’re organic’, came Jacqueline’s defence.

‘They’re a rip off’, the mother retorted, following the boy to the door.

‘Five percent goes to hedgehogs’, she called after the pair, in a tone more feeble than she’d intended.The woman turned on her heels and looked the shopkeeper in the eye.

‘Well, if I see a hedgehog I’ll ask it for a loan’, she concluded, and off went her first customers.

Jacqueline grunted and muttered to herself, ‘Idiots! What’s wrong with these people ?’

She took a second swig of vodka as compensation for her wasted time and effort.

Yesterday’s drinking was making her feel hungry, so she crammed an Eat Y’self Fitter vegan hog roast into the microwave and opened a bag of locally sourced Chinese rice crackers. She opted for denial about the current day’s drinking and poured herself another glass to prove it.

The lunchtime rush didn’t start until 3 pm. By that time, she’d sold a bottle of mineral water and a bag of the world’s most expensive potato crisps. She could virtually hear hedgehogs throwing themselves off cliff tops in despair, whilst lemmings called lawyers about character theft. At 3 o’clock she was sat at the counter, and her mind had returned to the subject of teetotalism. She couldn’t face pouring more alcohol down the drain; it was expensive stuff.

The door bell rang and the first of the belated rush, a builder covered in quick drying cement, walked in. By the time he’d got to the counter, a couple of kids had arrived.

‘Do you sell fags ?’ asked the builder, as he looked around the shop doubtfully.

She went over to the herbal remedies section, and he smelt a rat.

‘We have a healthy range’, she said, the volume turned low. He turned to walk away.

‘Macrobiotic friendly’ she began, as another customer brushed past the ignorant swine at the door.

‘Keep calm’, she told herself, then looked to see what the two kids were up to.

The new arrival was an elderly man who looked more confused than the builder. She felt flustered and wished the kids would leave.

‘Can I help ?’ she asked, in a half sarcastic tone.

’No thanks’, said one of them, as they turned to leave. She was sure she heard something rattle in their pockets, as they wandered off. Turning her head to look at the display of miniature bottles containing magic water, her fear was confirmed. She squeezed by the old man, rushed to the door and looked left, right and around the corner, but the brats had disappeared into thin air.

She sunk onto the steps, groaned into her hands and cursed the working class. It wasn’t meant to be like this. Especially on the first day. She’d done her homework and was certain she’d chosen a prime location. It was the estate down the hill that was the problem, but she could hardly ask the inhabitants to move. Even the poor have rights these days.

She took a deep breath and went back inside, hoping the elderly man had not pocketed the remains of her stock. He was standing at the magazine section, swaying a little, looking up to a top shelf which wasn’t there. He turned to her and asked, in a deep, gruff Irish accent weathered by alcohol and age, ’Do you not have any pornography ?’.

She looked blankly at him, suspecting he wanted a more audible reply, then calmly said,’ No’, and wandered back to the till.

Like an unwelcome shadow, he followed her and propped himself up on the counter. Looking over her shoulder, he asked the next, almost inevitable, question. ‘Do you have booze ?’

She fought off a sigh and said,’ No, we do not have booze. We do not have cigarettes, alcohol, pornography or normal crisps. This is a new age grocery store with rustic kitchenware section, a range of astrological accessories and much much more. Isn’t it obvious ?’

‘Much much more, eh ?’, he said, in a low drawl, as he looked a little further over her shoulder. The bottle of healthy vodka was hidden from view, she was sure, but she started to suspect that he had x-ray vision.

She heard a little chuckle at the back of his throat, then he attempted to start another question but stopped before he began, as if deciding to give her a break. He turned and walked slowly to the beckoning exit. At the bottom of the steps he turned back and looked up at the sign above the door.

‘The shiny happy corner store’, he read out very slowly then repeated the chuckle at the back of his throat.

’Sounds like an off license to me’.
He turned once more, muttering to himself, ‘An off license with no booze’. And then he was gone.

She dashed to the door, slammed it shut and locked it before anyone else could sneak in. The first day had been truly disastrous, but she was a professional so brushed it under the welcome mat outside the flat door. She had brought up the bottle of once forgotten vodka, half intending to pour it away but fearing the sewer would be poisoned with so much alcohol in one day. She hung on to it until the following morning when there was a more sensible amount to dispose of.

A year later the profits were trickling in like incapacitated molluscs, and Jacqueline was bored and a bit worried. The government had introduced the Gis a Job, I’ll do Anything F’ Nothin’ Scheme the previous year, and she felt it was her duty to do her bit for society. The free labour was society doing it’s bit for her. It was a joy to see her employees’ happy little faces each day, as they worked their fingers to the bone for bugger all.

Unemployment had rocketed in recent years, and the new scheme had sorted the workers from the shirkers. Most were complying with the measures and, thereby, they continued to receive their meagre social security benefits. The shirkers were stripped of all payments and were branded across their foreheads with the words Jobless Scum. This was the final nail in the coffin for them, their scarring rendered them unemployable and destined for lives of crime, starvation and lonely deaths in the resurrected workhouses. She saw them each day, walking up from the valley and past the shiny happy castle on the hill.

Looking nervously from the shop window, she saw a group of them gathered by a lamp post across the road. She could see evil in their eyes, the branding on their foreheads making them look all the more sinister. Some of them had a green staining around their mouths, a sure sign that they had been feasting on lawn mowings and lumps of chickweed at the municipal tip.

She had been in negotiations with the human resource dispenser at the jobless centre, and she had been promised two full time bouncers for the shop door. She was assured that they would not be from the estate down the hill.

Feeling drained from looking out of the window all afternoon, she yawned and decided to go upstairs for a rest. Mona, her state-funded assistant, was left in charge and would lock up shortly.

Halfway up the stairs, she heard the familiar sound of the doorbell and then raised voices. She went back down, pushed open the door at the bottom of the stairs then yelped, as a man with a stocking over his head pointed a sawn-off shotgun at her and shouted ’STICK ‘EM UP’.

Her first thought was, ‘I didn’t realise robbers still wore stockings over their heads’.

The sawn-off shotgun and the phrase “Stick ‘em up” seemed a bit dated too.
They were either amateurs, or they were trying to be quaint. Then she wondered if she should ask them to shoot Mona rather than her if it came to that. There were two of them, a second man stood by the door with an iron bar. Beneath their stockings, on their foreheads, were the words “Jobless Scum”.

The first aimed his gun at Mona’s face, nodded his head towards the till and shouted, ’OPEN IT’.

Mona quivered and whimpered tearfully, ‘I can’t’.

‘OPEN IT’, he shouted, a semitone higher then looked down and was forced to admit that she had a point. There was no cash drawer to open.

Jacqueline stepped in and, in the most managerial voice she could muster, she informed them, ‘We only accept credit and debit cards’.

She could see an angry disbelieving look on the face beneath the stocking, and she wondered if she should have put it differently.

‘We don’t take cash’, she told them, in a less assertive tone, then added,’It’s something to do with “saving the planet”’

The second man came over to look at the till.

’Shit !’ he exclaimed in disbelief.

It was their first job and they were planning to work their way up.

‘GET ON THE FLOOR’, shouted the bar man. ‘HANDS ON YER HEADS’

On the floor, Jacqueline felt inappropriately amused, as the farce unfolded. Testosterone bubbled violently in the men’s veins, as they scanned the shop for something worth having. They weren’t going away empty handed.

‘What is this shit ?’, one of them said, as he looked at the price on a tub of Eat Y’self Fitter low-fat fruitarian lard.

On the shelves were tins of mock chicken, packets of dehydrated vegetables for the compassionate dog, healthy tobacco to make smokers feel sick, a book entitled “Taking the piss - a glass of urine a day keeps the doctor away”. The bottles of magic water were incredibly expensive, so they filled their pockets with them.

The man with the bar hoovered up everything within reach and piled it into a wicker basket. His colleague grabbed a Bag for Life and filled it with crisps and cow friendly chocolate for the journey home. He tried to take down a dream catcher, got entangled in it and accidentally fired a bullet into the ceiling. As the shot rang out Jacqueline giggled quietly, finding it increasingly difficult to feel threatened. She was looking forward to the CCTV movie. The gun shot was the mens’ cue to leave; they couldn’t carry anymore anyway.

As the gunman exited, the dream catcher caught on the door handle, he stumbled, fell headlong down the steps and his head cracked on the pavement. The man with the bar fell down behind him, and the piece of iron flew from his hand and crashed down onto a parked car, setting off its alarm. A cheer broke out somewhere in the street, as the branded criminals laid swearing on the pavement surrounded by bags of crisps, bottles of magic water and much much more. A copy of “Yoga for dummies” rustled in the wind, as they groaned and untangled themselves.

A group of fellow scumbags gathered around them and helped themselves to the sawn-off shotgun and the new age bits ’n’ bobs. A can of zero-carbon cola rolled down the steps and exploded on the flagstones, as the hooligans raced off with the twice stolen goods.

Jacqueline was in stitches amidst the chaos, and Mona was on the phone to the police. The men went, empty handed, to the parked car. Beneath the sound of the screaming alarm, one of them could be heard shouting, ‘I CAN’T FIND THE FUCKING KEYS’.

Then there was the sound of running and the distant wail of a police siren.

The disheveled shopkeeper pulled herself up from the ground, grabbing a miniature bottle on the way. She unscrewed the top and knocked back the magic water within, already thinking about a career change. Maybe she’d try her hand at script writing; she had some ideas. She started to laugh again, spurting the mystical liquid across the room. A realist passing the shop shook his head and sighed as he made his way to Bargain Booze a few doors down.

Whatever Jacqueline did, she was the kind of person that would always be alright, unlike some of the poor souls down the hill who would never be alright.