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The morning started out like any other on Straight and Narrow; the smell of garbage slowly beginning its usual roasting in the sun, the popcorn-esk style of gunfire echoing in the distance, and the dark sky giving way to the nicotine yellow hue all New York residents know and despise.
In a short, dead-end offshoot of the aforementioned streets, two shops sit. On the corner, Sybil's. It's still a tattoo parlor, yet unknown to the future onslaught of career changes made by its owner.
The place that sits next to it is Lefty's. Metaphorically and physically trapped between a rock (bricks) and a hard place, Lefty is still trying his best to run his tool rental and hardware store... despite the circumstances he finds himself in.
Every morning, he drives to his shop in his used 2004 Chevy Tahoe. He arrives at 6:35 am sharp, and parks two blocks away, lest he be forced to replace his break lines again after the first time a certain rabbity-creature cut them.
He enters in through the back in order to avoid any possible sneak attack that lagamorph may have planned. Now some may find it hard to believe that someone like Max would ever wake up that early, but that violent little sack of fur holds a grudge like no other.
Once inside, Lefty does a quick rundown of the entire shop. Tools/toolboxes still under heavy lock and key? Check. Boxes of nuts, bolts, and washers up where 3-foot rabbit mouths cannot reach? Also check. All socket spanners- oh wait.. no, Lefty doesn't carry those anymore. Not after the incident. He rubs his right eye with a calloused hand to dispell the phantom pain he feels when thinking about socket spanners.
Now that he's gone through his checklist, he feels mostly safe enough to start his day. (If he only opened when he felt completely safe, the store would never be open.)
Lefty rounds the register counter and steps up to the front door, reaching for the Open/Closed sign to flip it to Open. However, he pauses. In the dim morning light, he can see an old, miserable man staring back at him through the glass in the door.
The old man is slightly hunched, his shoulders lowered in an unwilling sign of defeat. Greying hair conveys stress that he never would have expected twenty years ago. His brown eyes, once filled with a glimmer of hope for the future, now stare empty and silently tortured. Around those pitiful eyes is dark, raccoonish rings with wrinkles that lead down to his cheeks, which are beginning to sag a little from the constant frown he wears.
The flannel shirt he has on tells a story much of the same as his head. The cuffs are repaired, but it's obvious that they've been torn many times before. There's a singe mark or two on each arm, but that damage is nothing compared to the constellation of stitch work from past rips, tears, and cuts that speckle all over the body of the shirt. Overall, it looks like the man has been through a war every day of his life.
Why is Lefty making such detailed assumptions? Because he knows it's him. He's looking back at a reflection he wishes wasn't him. At only 48, he looks over 60, and he hates it. With a grimace, Lefty brushes a hand through his hair to try and at least control the messy fray. It doesn't work though, so he sighs and flips the sign to Open.
The day goes slow at first, like it always does. No customers, the occasional rat scurrying through the wall, a blaring train horn or two..
Then, at around 10:40, the screeching halt of car tires grates the ears of all unfortunate enough to hear it. There they are. That damned dog and rabbit. It won't be long until the pair come inside to harass and/or blatantly steal from the poor man.
Lefty can already feel it in his gut; something bad is going to happen today, judging by the especially rowdy chatter coming from that malicious mutant rodent outside.
Sure enough, Lefty's prediction comes true. Three hours later, the bell to his shop jingles, and the pair walk inside, talking about some case of theirs as they do. When they reach the counter, the dog, Sam, speaks up.
"Heya Lefty."
Lefty looks up from the crossword puzzle that he had hoped to finish before the chaos started.
"What do you want this time?"
He asks, already dreading the conversation tree that Sam will no doubt drag him down for the next twenty minutes.
"You don't happen to have any useless and free spare parts laying around, do you? Possibly ones shaped exactly like a hacksaw..?"
Lefty just shakes his head at Sam's question, his frown deepening as he does so. Meanwhile, Max is wandering around the store, jiggling various locked cases to see if any of them can be pried open and rifled through.
"We go through this every day. No, I'm not giving or renting you a tool for free. You never give them back, and on the rare occasion that you do, they're completely destroyed."
Sam's passive smile lowers a bit at the quick dismissal, but it perks back up a second later.
"Aw, c'mon, surely we couldn't have lost that many-"
He starts before Lefty cuts him off, holding up each of his nine fingers as he lists tools.
"The sanding belt, my slip joint pliers, the magnetic-mount drill, three vices, a ball-peen hammer, -"
In the background, Max giggles at the name of the hammer.
"An ungodly amount of nails, my good nail gun, an entire fucking lathe somehow, and-"
Lefty points to the space where his right pinky finger once was.
"My mini cut-off saw."
Sam at least has the common courtesy to look partially guilty for that last incident.
"Yeaah.. maybe we haven't had the best track record, but hey! At least your insurance is paying it all off, right?"
That rightfully pisses Lefty off, and his face starts to flush an angry pink.
"I CAN'T GET INSURANCE IN THIS AREA!"
He exclaims, throwing his hands up in a fit of anger. The newspaper that had been resting on the counter flutters to the ground with a gentle rustle of paper.
Sam cringes away from Lefty's outburst and holds up his hands in a peaceful manner.
"We'll uuhh.. come back later. You don't look pleased."
Before Lefty can get anymore angry, Sam backs up and turns away, heading out of the store while calling
"C'mon little buddy, we've got other places to be."
Max, having heard his husband's endearing nickname for him, pokes his head up from the AC vent he somehow managed to break open. He looks towards the door, then at Lefty. Lefty feels a chill go down his spine at the murderous look the lagamorph shoots him.
Max approaches the counter, still glaring, and scoops up the newspaper that is laying on the ground in front of him. He then proceeds to eat it in front of Lefty, half-finished crossword and all.
Another call from Sam outside breaks the tension of the moment, and the rabbity-thingy scurries out the door, but not before leaving a papery spit-wad on the window.
After the door shuts, Lefty collapses his upper half onto the counter, sighing in exhaustion. It turns shaky, and he begins to cry quietly. He was never the type to be a macho man, but he also wasn't one to cry a lot.
That duo just... God, they made life that much more miserable. Some days, it made Lefty want to call it quits and pack up shop for good. Even if his father helped him raise this business from the ground, that was becoming less of a motivator every day.
But Lefty shakes his head and sniffles, wiping his tears on the back of his hand. He can't give up.. he can't. He needs to stand up for once in his life and endure the pain. No more running.
Even after all this time, Lefty feels that little bit of stubborn pride left in him. He straightens up and takes a deep breath, making a vow to himself. He'll stay in business until the day he dies. He can't let any old dog and rabbit stomp on his dreams! Never!
In Loving Memory of Lefty Clurpel
1961 - 2009
He was a loved son, brother, uncle, and friend, taken too soon by a freak accident involving two chainsaws, a car, and an open manhole. May he fly high. 🕊