*Author's Note: Any and all persons engaging in any sexual activity are at least eighteen years of age.
Disclaimers: Yes, I need an editor. No, I do not want an editor. Yes there's too many people to keep track of. Yes it jumps around too much. Yes it's too long. Yes it's too short. Yes it's in the wrong category. Yes this is stupid shit. And, yes. I am a horrible writer, barely legible, hardly literate.
Just email me your bank account number and routing number and your mother's maiden name and I'll refund every penny you paid me to read my story. Don't worry if your bank calls you and tells you that you're overdrawn; you know how they're always making mistakes.
*.*.*
When Buddy Mechon managed to shut down Early's Grocery store in DeGarde, Louisiana, the Democrat candidate obviously gave no thought to the numerous people he would be putting out of work.
To be sure, none of those people voted for him to represent them in the State's legislative body.
Marcet Richards was one of the employees that had to file for unemployment benefits, had to hope and pray that she qualified for some form of assistance to pay her rent, keep her car running, put groceries on the table.
"One eighty seven a week?" she squealed in disbelief. "God damn! My rent's six hundred a month!"
"Ever think about getting a roommate?" the government employee asked, undeterred by the overweight girl's protests.
The employee had heard just about every sob story in her twenty nine years with St. Elizabeth Parish Department of Labor. She knew she could not afford to be sympathetic to any of these people. Her first year of working there had nearly been her last year until she learned to shut off her emotions.
"A roommate? Lady, it's a one bedroom apartment," Marcet snapped.
"Anyway," the woman said and continued to tell Marcet what she would have to do to qualify, to receive her one eighty seven each week.
"Might also want to think about getting that G.E.D. Kind of hard get anywhere in life without at least a high school diploma," the government employee concluded their meeting.
She was already calling the next name on her list before Marcet was even out of the chair.
Marcet smiled tightly at her fellow ex-employees of Early's Grocery as she left the waiting area of the office.
"Might want to think about getting that G.E.D." Marcet muttered bitterly as she walked down the steps of the building.
When she had dropped out of school, after repeating the tenth grade for the third time, Marcet's mother had told the nineteen year old girl she couldn't stay in her home.
Marcet had been determined to make it on her own and had applied for a job at Early's.
"I uh, only class I ever passed was our Daily Living Skills class," she admitted to Tommy Collins, the manager of the grocery store.
Tommy squinted at the deplorable penmanship on the application form, the numerous misspelled words, then squinted at Marcet's large chest.
Even though she packed a few extra pounds, Marcet was an attractive young lady. Big boned, her mother used to call it. But she had a sweet round face, thick blonde hair that just touched the nape of her neck, a sweet smile, and big blue eyes.
"Daily Living?" he asked.
"Yeah, it's uh, it's like Home Economics, yeah, that's what Mrs. O'Brien said, home economics," Marcet agreed. "Like baking and stuff."
Marcet was in luck; the woman that normally ran the baked goods counter had just requested six weeks maternity leave.
"Betty!" Tommy called out, still squinting at the outline of Marcet's nipples through the thin blouse the girl wore.
"Yeah?" Betty asked, fighting down her dislike of the sleazy man.
"This is Marcet; says she knows how to bake," Tommy said, trying to see if he could see a panty line in Marcet's snug slacks.
"Yeah?" Betty asked then asked Marcet her recipe for fudge brownies.
She then asked about Angel Food cake and nodded approval as Marcet rattled off the recipe.
"Betty will be training you for the next, what? You're leaving on what day again?" Tommy said
"The tenth will be my last day, Tommy, I put it right there on your calendar Tommy," Betty snapped at the buffoon.
"Huh? Oh yeah, the tenth," Tommy agreed.
When Marcet turned, showing Tommy her ample rear end, he distinctly saw the panty line and smirked. The chubby girl was wearing a skimpy pair of bikini panties over her ample rear and wide hips.
Betty trained Marcet well, showing her the tricks and shortcuts she'd learned over the years. Marcet in turn showed the older woman what she'd learned in Daily Living class.
Betty also had to show Marcet how to operate the ticket machine.
"You can't read, can you?" Betty asked gently.
"No ma'am," Marcet whispered, highly embarrassed. "Not real good."
So the older woman also trained Marcet how to differentiate between one function and another on the machine.
"They ask you put 'Happy Birthday Jackie' on the cake? Make them write it out," she suggested. "Don't want them coming back all pissed off because Jacky's with a 'Y' instead of an 'IE,' right?"
By the time Betty left, Marcet was handling the counter and handling the customers with no trouble.
By the time Betty returned to work after the birth of her daughter, Marcet was the head baker. Betty had no resentment; the girl was good, excellent at her job. And because of Marcet's difficulty in reading, the girl wasn't suited to do much else in the store.
So, Betty helped out in the bakery when needed, the deli when needed, the liquor counter when needed.
Then Buddy Mechon, candidate for District 78 saw an underage girl buying alcohol. Tommy Collins had grown up in the Seventies, when the drinking age was eighteen years of age. And the man saw no reason to change that. But Buddy Mechon, in outrage, had contacted the bureaucrats in Baton Rouge. And the store was shut down.
Now, stepping out of the St. Elizabeth Parish Courthouse, Marcet walked toward her 1992 Ford Explorer, hobbling slightly. Her left shoe's sole was coming loose, even flopped and slapped on the asphalt parking lot.
Right next to her vehicle was a large puddle and Marcet gasped as the water seeped into her shoe.
The shoes were nearly three years old and had served her well. Marcet knew from experience, having a wide foot, shoes was not an item she could afford to scrimp on. Bargain shoes were no bargain; they did not last.
"Great," she muttered as she got into her car.
A mental check of her bank account told her she had nearly twelve hundred dollars; Marcet was not given to extravagances.
"Shoes ain't an extravagance," she reminded herself as the wet foot grew more and more uncomfortable.
Stolzle's Shoes in Kimble, Louisiana sold service shoes, sold work boots, nurses' shoes, and school shoes. Tom Stolzle, owner of Stolzle's opined that fashions and fads come and go, but people will always need to basics.
When a student at Kimble Academy was stabbed to death for his Seth Curry under Armor shoes, Kimble Academy adopted a school uniform dress code. Tom Stolzle had several boxes of black oxford shoes and the small shop was saved from near bankruptcy.
On a side note, the student that killed the other student for his shoes had to throw the Seth Curry shoes away; they were a full size too small for him.
Inside the small store, Mikel Kohlbrandt listlessly arranged the display of nurse shoes. Her back ached; the back seat of her car was not designed for sleeping. She was sure she stunk; sponge bathing in the store's bathroom sink was hardly adequate.
She didn't blame her mother for her lot in life, but she did wish for the thousandth time that week that Charlotte Kohlbrandt had stuck to taking her medication.
She also did not blame their landlord for evicting them. Her mother had not paid the rent in nearly four months, had not paid the utilities in as long, and had spent every penny she'd been paid by Social Security Disability on drugs.
The nineteen year old girl looked up when the door chimed and felt a twinge of embarrassment.
Marcet Richards and Mikel had gone to school together. True, Mikel had graduated two years earlier, had not kept up with the former classmate, but was still embarrassed that anyone that she knew would see her in such condition.
"Hey!" Marcet said happily, recognizing a classmate's face. "Mikel, right?"
"Yeah, how's it going?" Mikel pasted a smile on her face.
"Good, good," Marcet said, then stopped. "That's not true, it's going like shit."
She found the display of shoes that she liked and blinked at the ninety four ninety nine price tag.
"Lost my job; Early's closed you know, looking for work," Marcet confessed. "I wear these in an eight and a half wide."
Mikel found the shoes in the 8 1/2 C and sat on a stool to assist Marcet in trying on the shoes.
