Work Experience
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When I was about eighteen I worked for a while in the newly dawning leisure industry as a sales assistant in a small sports store. The boss was a guy of about 60 and rarely came to the store.
The day I want to tell you about was much like any other but the manager was off sick and the middle aged lady assistant was on her day off leaving just Tom another lad just a little older than myself and me to run the shop. Being a Monday it was fairly quiet and no big deal.
Tom had arranged to meet his girlfriend for lunch, so at 12.20 he decided to get a flyer and leave a little early. Because of staff shortage the boss had already told us by phone to close for lunch at 12.30.
Just before 12.30 I was starting to lock up when the door opened and I was confronted with the most gorgeous woman I have ever seen. She was about 25, tall, maybe 5'9" and sensually slim. This being accented by the tight white T shirt and short, (yes this was the era of the micro skirt) pleated plaid skirt. Her legs made to look even longer by the high heels she was wearing.
Giving me a white toothed smile that nearly stopped my heart she said,
"I'd like to see some training shoes please."
"Er... yes OK." I said stuttering. "They are upstairs. I'll have to lock the door if you don't mind. I'm the only one here and was just about to close for lunch."
She didn't reply, so assuming she thought herself quite safe with a young lad like me, I locked the door and followed her wonderfully wiggling hips up the stairs. Viewed from just below I could see just about all of those lovely legs but not quite to her panties.
She pointed out an expensive pair of trainers and sat on one of those low square cushion seats that shoe shops all over the world seem to have. I retrieved the indicated shoes form the shelf and knelt on the floor just in front of her. She put one of her feet up onto the angled fitting platforms for me to un-do her high heeled shoe for her. As she did her skirt slipped up her leg and my face being in-line with her lower body, I was given an unobstructed view of her crotch area. Not only was there no sign of any sign of underclothes but a distinct lack of pubic hair.
I tried desperately to concentrate on the training shoe I was lacing when she asked,
"What do you think?"
I said, "They are probably the best pair of trainers we have ever stocked."
"No. Not the shoes Silly. I meant this..." As she spoke she raised the hem of her skirt with one hand and ran her other hand over the flat of her stomach and down over the neatly shaved area of her vagina. Cupping her hand between her legs I saw a finger disappear into her depth.
She closed her eyes and took in a deep breath.
"Er... Its great." I said. "Lovely." Having never before been in this type of situation.
"You sound like you are still describing shoes." she said smiling. Moving her hand from between her legs she reached up towards my face and placing the still moist finger just below my nose dragged it down over my mouth pulling my lower lip down. Her finger then traveled down over my chin.
I could smell the musty womanliness of her and taste the slightly salty tang of her wetness on the inside of my lower lip. My reaction was to give a meteoric boost of blood to my blossoming erection which had started the moment she had walked in the store.
Trying to relieve the discomfort of my tool which was now bent double in the confines of my underpants I instinctively reached down to try and untangle it.
"Mmmm." She mumbled, a smile in her voice. "Is it the shoes or me having that effect on you? Want a better sample?" She said laying back over two of the padded stools exposing even more of her charms to me as she opened her legs for my inspection.
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VI. The perfect pie crust. The windows were dark, covered with condensation. Inside, at the kitchen table, Marcia pressed the heel of her hand against the back of the santoku knife and cleaved the apple in half. Fuji, this time. There were five other apples prepared on the cutting board, skinned an unearthly greenish-white, already tarnishing. She was making an apple pie for the Blue Cat. "I still don't understand," Grace had said. "What you've got against birthdays. What's so...
VII. A bicycle built for two. Everyman's Cycles looked like a bicycle field hospital. Wherever you looked bicycles, or parts of bicycles, stood, leaned, or lay in various states of distress, awaiting Walt's attention. He'd get to each of them, eventually, in his methodical, patient way. Walt took in stray bicycles the way crazy old ladies collected cats. Most of them were rescues. Bicycles he found abandoned in fields, weeds growing through their spokes. Or locked for months to streets...
VIII. Snowballs in paradise. Grace was unpacking a snow-globe collection from all fifty states that Mavis Pritchard had brought into the shop the day before. "Look at this," she said, holding one up with a hula girl and a palm tree inside. "There's even one from Hawaii. "Hmph. Snow in Hawaii. Who would imagine something like that?" "Someone who'd never been to Hawaii?" Marcia suggested. Grace turned the globe over. "Made in China. Well that explains it, I guess." She gave it...
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X. The amoeba life. In the stories of people she admired, there was always a defining moment, a dramatic event that summed up their lives to a critical point and provided the pivot for a new life to come. Marcia would like to have had a similar "defining moment" in her life, but it struck her that her life not only lacked a defining moment, but that it really didn't have any definition at all. It was a more amorphous thing, her life; if it advanced, and that was often in doubt, it...
XI. A ghost and a riddle. Night again. Bus travel made her sleepy, but only during the day it seemed. She traveled through the night hours wide awake. Phoebe could see her reflection like a ghost super-imposed over all that limitless darkness. She felt like a ghost, too, like something not quite real, a figment of someone's imagination. But who's? She was a ghost floating across the countryside to haunt a person who'd run as far away from her as possible. What brought her back...
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XIV. Gimme shelter. "You live in a garage?" They were standing on the little concrete square outside the front door, staring up together at a tidy two story structure that, modifications notwithstanding, still, in fact, looked very much like a garage. "Well, it's not exactly a garage. Actually, It's a converted carriage house. I'm just renting. The woman I work for owns it. She lives in the main house across the garden." "A carriage house? What's that?" "It's where they used...
XV. Breakfast club. Sunlight poured through the checkered curtains of the kitchen window. The sliced bananas and butter were simmering on the stovetop. Marcia added to them spices she'd already toasted--cinnamon, nutmeg, clove. Together they filled the carriage house like incense. This was the Church of Home and she was performing the celebration of Good Morning. She measured out a half-cup of white flour and poured it into the mixing bowl. In another bowl she whisked three eggs, a...
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XIX. First draft people. An occasional bat flickered across the stars overhead. The gardenias and hibiscus had long drawn in their petal- awnings. Across the lawn, the hunched bushes looked like a queue of black-robed monks marching back to their monastery. And in the middle distance, fireflies marked a secondary night-sky of transitory constellations in what might have been an even more unpredictable universe than the one we find ourselves inhabiting, one that blinks in an out of...
XX. Glass houses. To the sadly uninitiated, a bicycle is simply a convenient means of transportation, low-tech, eco-friendly, inexpensive, ultra-democratic. For the fitness conscious, it's a superior form of practical exercise: you could get your aerobic workout and run errands at the same time. For others, the bicycle endures as the conveyance of childhood memories--tricycle, Big Wheels, training wheels, scraped knees and paper routes. However to someone like Walt, a bicycle was all...
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XXII. The x factor. It was a strange council they made that evening sitting on Grace's porch. Walt and Marcia, Claire, and, of course, Grace herself, puttering about busily, trying to make everyone comfortable. It brought to mind those old photographs of Yalta, where Stalin, Roosevelt, and Churchill posed with forced congeniality for the camera, the most unlikely and unnatural of allies, each of them knowing full well that their cooperation was only temporary. That the moment the...
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XXIV. Cactus country. The day was cool and clear. An auspicious day for new beginnings. The cloudless sky stretched tight, a blue tarpaulin snapped to the horizon. It was almost enough to give Marcia a feeling of hope. Between all the preparations, hastily made as they'd been, throwing together a pair of travel bags, gassing up the truck, collecting maps and whatnot, they were on the road a little later than they'd planned. Traveling south on I-640, traffic was still light but picked...
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XXVI. The great escape. One could imagine a thousand things going wrong, but there was no hitch at the hospital. Their quickly improvised charade worked like a charm. Walt's performance as Phoebe's concerned but understandably angry father was spot-on. Marcia, in her supporting role as distraught mom, hadn't had to act at all. There were the usual papers and forms to sign, a brief interview with a representative from the Chupadero police department and another with a representative...
XXVII. Just south of normal. For the next month, they very much resembled a real family. In the meantime, peace talks with Claire continued, though they were touch-and- go. Grace had gently offered to help mediate and Marcia gratefully accepted her offer. Grace was making progress, working her indelible magic, but it was magic in slow motion. In Claire, she'd met her match, a woman as resistant to miracles as they come. Marcia's ex was angry and would likely remain so, on some level,...
XXVIII. Departures. It was one of those mornings that seem unable to decide what it wants to be. Halfway to the airport, a fine rain blew up against the windshield of the pick-up. A few miles later, the sun unexpectedly broke out from a temporary gap in the impregnable line of gray clouds massed like battleships laying siege on the horizon It had finally been agreed that Phoebe would return to New Jersey and sign in to an outpatient rehab clinic. At the same time, she would take...
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XXX. Book of changes. One morning Marcia came into the Blue Cat and found Grace packing up the snow-globe collection. She carefully wrapped each plastic globe in newspaper before nesting it inside a box beside the others. "What happened? Did Mrs. Pritchard have second-thoughts about selling?" Marcia's eyes widened in disbelief. "Don't tell me you got a taker for the entire collection?" "Neither, I'm afraid," Grace said. Marcia began setting out that morning's baked selections....
XXXI. The wisdom of ghosts. Edgar Birdwell was an awful poet. There was just no two ways around it. It wasn't only that his language was stilted and clunky, antiquated even in his own day, or that his themes were self-censored, disguised in tortured euphemisms to the point of utter obscurity. He was simply a bad writer. There was a good reason he was self-published. Who else would? Birdwell had an ear with more tin in it than a can. Marcia's fantasy, ex- graduate student of...
XXXII. Welcome home. Autumn was now more than just a hint of wood-smoke in the nippy air of a summer evening. The trees had turned and the leaves were in free-fall. In the night sky, the constellations had subtly shifted position. The stars were sharper. The frogs and crickets had grown quieter. "Good evening ladies." Walt waved to them as he cruised passed the porch on the tandem. He was showing up all over town lately riding solo on that bicycle. He was becoming famous for it....
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