The Beast in Aisle 34 by Darrin Doyle

Author:Darrin Doyle [Doyle, Darrin]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Tortoise Books
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

13

The Upper Peninsula had no shortage of wooded areas in which to bed down, but the walking distances were painfully far. Trout’s trailer, as it turned out, was near a place called Epoufette Bay, on the southern shore of the U.P. He told Sandy to head west along U.S. Highway 2. Sandy would be able to find occasional places of business where he might do odd jobs for cash as long as he presented himself well.

The first day, Sandy trudged seven miles before coming upon Hog Island Country Store and Cottages. He was parched, feet and ankles sore, spine sweat-soaked from the Transformers backpack. His arms ached from the sack of clothes and the sleeping bag. The store was a white clapboard one-room structure probably built in the 1930s. An ice machine and newspaper machine flanked the front door, along with a stack of firewood ($4 per bundle). A knee-high statue of a black hog wearing a bandana around its neck hunkered under a sign reading Beware of Attack Pig. Looking at the statue made Sandy’s stomach growl.

A bell tinkled as Sandy stepped in. The wood-plank floor groaned a soft welcome under his feet. The room smelled of cold cuts and potpourri. Local jams, honey, pickled green beans, and jerky filled rustic shelves surrounded by old-timey tchotchkes—metal Pepsi Cola signs; potato chip tins; a wooden placard advertising Doan’s Kidney Pills.

A sandy-haired woman behind the deli counter greeted him with a “Good afternoon” without looking up from her task, which appeared to be tallying a pile of plastic-wrapped sandwiches. Sandy found a cooler and was about to select a water when he remembered he only had $20. A bit decadent to spent 5% of his entire cash supply on a bottled beverage.

“Excuse me, do you have a restroom?”

“Around back,” she said, “but it’s for paying customers.” Now the woman appraised Sandy over the top of her reading glasses. He couldn’t decipher what she thought of him and the huge clusterfuck of crap in his arms. He set his burden on the floor.

“Of course. No problem.” He was nervous and pretended to scan the shelves before hastily grabbing a small white box containing some sort of pastry.

“That it for you?”

“That’ll do it.”

“Bundt cake…” the woman muttered. She wrote the price on a receipt and used a calculator to figure out the tax. “My niece makes those. They’re amazing.”

“Ahhhh,” Sandy said, drawing out the sound as if a doctor had just told him to open wide. He thrust the $20 bill at her. What if she recognized him from the TV?

“She’s got more over there on the day-old shelf,” the woman said. “Sixty-percent off.”

“Just the one will be fine.”

“Hate to see those go to waste. I think there’s a coffee cake left. Those are her best unless you’re allergic to nuts, because it does have pecans. Maybe walnuts? I can’t remember. So good, though.”

Flustered, Sandy went to the shelf, which was actually the top of a wooden barrel, and found a box with the Sharpie-written words, COFFEE CAKE.

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