Chapter 6:
If It consumes Me, Let The Script Upon My Tomb Read (...)
The Girl From The Grocery Store Across The Street Is (NOT!) A Robot, She's Just Incredibly, Incredibly, Incredibly WEIRD!
“Do you realize right now I could just steal stuff from the store, right?”
[∘ ∘ ∘ ( °ヮ° ) ?]
“Come on… are you coming out or not?”
Maybe the situation wasn’t hard to understand. No—better said, the situation was hard to understand.
Nobody leaves a store unattended, but that wasn’t the point.
I have a small but huge problem: I usually understand things after four hours of mental gymnastics. Of course that’s an exaggeration, but that also wasn’t the point.
A girl throws you a hint—a pretty direct hint.
You let it sail right past because it’s a direct hint but not completely direct.
Four years later you realize Part A (the hint) was 20% and Part B (the direct part) was 80%, and then you torture yourself every early morning you remember it, wondering if you hit your head to be that stupid or if it took actual effort.
That wasn’t just an example—it was also an anecdote, though it belongs in the pile of things that don’t matter right now.
Back to the point:
Shy? Not at all. If she were shy she wouldn’t talk like she was throwing acid in my face.
Sociopath/alien/android? The first scares me, the second is impossible if we consider the Fermi paradox, and the third—I don’t think we’re advanced enough to build androids at that level yet.
Though if we are, thanks to whoever chose to give it that appearance.
Tangents.
The point was much simpler: it felt like talking to two different people depending on whether it was face-to-face or chat messages.
So… dissociative identity? I don’t think so, though I’m not a doctor—and honestly doctors scare me for reasons I don’t understand—so I don’t know if that’s how it works in real life.
If this were one of those generic rom-com manga it would make a little more sense, though it still wouldn’t be one. If it were, I’d be smarter and maybe I could shoot fire from my hands, which I can’t do and not for lack of trying.
Summary.
Ever cover a hose with your thumb? The water stream splits in two—that brings us back to square one.
Face-to-face vs. chat.So my question wasn’t 'why?' anymore, it was how to lift the thumb without causing too much pressure.
Stupid to think about these things? Not at all.
Stupid to do it while the girl in question is locked in the bathroom of her own store for who-knows-what? Moderately.
Stupid to do it while the girl in question is locked in the bathroom of her own store for who-knows-what while I’m petting the stray cat—sorry, Nyocery Store? Quite a bit.
Stupid to do it while the girl in question is locked in the bathroom of her own store for who-knows-what while I’m petting the stray cat—sorry, Nyocery Store—while, by one of those absurd and horrible coincidences of fate, a customer walks in? Yes, completely.
The customer startled me, and out of inertia and stupidity I crossed to the other side of the counter.
Incredible that I got startled by an old man barely 1.40 m tall who looked like he was only still alive because Death simply forgot he existed.
“Do you have those mango sodas they show on TV?” he asked, leaning on his cane—which, on closer inspection, looked more like it was dancing than supporting him.
“Uhhm…” I looked around, looked at the bathroom. She was supposed to come out and handle it. Supposed to.
[You have a customer]
[(ㆆ_ㆆ)]
[What the hell does that mean? Are you coming out or what?]
“It’s mango soda…” the old man repeated.
“Yeah, yeah, one second.” I answered, staring at my phone.
She was typing again, stopping, typing, stopping.
[Want me to handle him?]
[Please ♡⸜(˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝]
[I hate you…]
[You got this! ( = ᗜ = )]
I pocketed the phone, cleared my throat, and delivered what to this day must be the best performance of my entire life. “Any particular brand, sir?”
“The one from TV.” He squinted at the refrigerators.
“There are… a lot of soda commercials…” And my TV doesn’t work, old man.
“The really famous one. It’s orange-colored.”
“I can assure you they all are…” I muttered under my breath while heading to the refrigerators. “Do you always get the same brand? Remember the label color? Anything?”
The old man looked more like he was trying to jump-start a 1938 car engine than think—he rubbed his chin, and I couldn’t help comparing it to squeezing a bulldog’s face.
“Uhm…”
“Yeah?”
“Uhm…”
“Remembered yet?” I asked with the refrigerator door open—which isn’t ideal, not because it warms the sodas but because if there were dairy it could break the cold chain. I’m an idiot but situationally competent… sometimes.
“Aah… ah… uhm…” The old man was honestly trying, though he was closer to reaching nirvana than the soda. “Kiri.”
“I don’t know the brand bu—”
“Kiri always gives me a different one because they’re the most famous on TV.”
“Kiri?” So now the old guy had some kind of dementia mixing memories and present?
“The girl…”
“…Yeah, I’m pretty sure that’s a girl’s name…” I thanked the universe infinitely that the refrigerator handle wasn’t just plastic or I would’ve snapped it.
“She’s not working today?”
“N-no… she had to… do... things…” I answered, grabbing the first mango soda I found. This wrinkled old man knows her name?
So senile enough to forget a brand but not senile enough to read a name tag… though I’m not senile and I never bothered to do it.
By elimination I’m either an idiot or the old man is a pervert.
To preserve my dignity I’ll throw the bomb at the old man.
Sorry, nothing personal.
[∘ ∘ ∘ ( °ヮ° ) ?]
“Come on… are you coming out or not?”
Maybe the situation wasn’t hard to understand. No—better said, the situation was hard to understand.
Nobody leaves a store unattended, but that wasn’t the point.
I have a small but huge problem: I usually understand things after four hours of mental gymnastics. Of course that’s an exaggeration, but that also wasn’t the point.
A girl throws you a hint—a pretty direct hint.
You let it sail right past because it’s a direct hint but not completely direct.
Four years later you realize Part A (the hint) was 20% and Part B (the direct part) was 80%, and then you torture yourself every early morning you remember it, wondering if you hit your head to be that stupid or if it took actual effort.
That wasn’t just an example—it was also an anecdote, though it belongs in the pile of things that don’t matter right now.
Back to the point:
Shy? Not at all. If she were shy she wouldn’t talk like she was throwing acid in my face.
Sociopath/alien/android? The first scares me, the second is impossible if we consider the Fermi paradox, and the third—I don’t think we’re advanced enough to build androids at that level yet.
Though if we are, thanks to whoever chose to give it that appearance.
Tangents.
The point was much simpler: it felt like talking to two different people depending on whether it was face-to-face or chat messages.
So… dissociative identity? I don’t think so, though I’m not a doctor—and honestly doctors scare me for reasons I don’t understand—so I don’t know if that’s how it works in real life.
If this were one of those generic rom-com manga it would make a little more sense, though it still wouldn’t be one. If it were, I’d be smarter and maybe I could shoot fire from my hands, which I can’t do and not for lack of trying.
Summary.
Ever cover a hose with your thumb? The water stream splits in two—that brings us back to square one.
Face-to-face vs. chat.So my question wasn’t 'why?' anymore, it was how to lift the thumb without causing too much pressure.
Stupid to think about these things? Not at all.
Stupid to do it while the girl in question is locked in the bathroom of her own store for who-knows-what? Moderately.
Stupid to do it while the girl in question is locked in the bathroom of her own store for who-knows-what while I’m petting the stray cat—sorry, Nyocery Store? Quite a bit.
Stupid to do it while the girl in question is locked in the bathroom of her own store for who-knows-what while I’m petting the stray cat—sorry, Nyocery Store—while, by one of those absurd and horrible coincidences of fate, a customer walks in? Yes, completely.
The customer startled me, and out of inertia and stupidity I crossed to the other side of the counter.
Incredible that I got startled by an old man barely 1.40 m tall who looked like he was only still alive because Death simply forgot he existed.
“Do you have those mango sodas they show on TV?” he asked, leaning on his cane—which, on closer inspection, looked more like it was dancing than supporting him.
“Uhhm…” I looked around, looked at the bathroom. She was supposed to come out and handle it. Supposed to.
[You have a customer]
[(ㆆ_ㆆ)]
[What the hell does that mean? Are you coming out or what?]
“It’s mango soda…” the old man repeated.
“Yeah, yeah, one second.” I answered, staring at my phone.
She was typing again, stopping, typing, stopping.
[Want me to handle him?]
[Please ♡⸜(˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝]
[I hate you…]
[You got this! ( = ᗜ = )]
I pocketed the phone, cleared my throat, and delivered what to this day must be the best performance of my entire life. “Any particular brand, sir?”
“The one from TV.” He squinted at the refrigerators.
“There are… a lot of soda commercials…” And my TV doesn’t work, old man.
“The really famous one. It’s orange-colored.”
“I can assure you they all are…” I muttered under my breath while heading to the refrigerators. “Do you always get the same brand? Remember the label color? Anything?”
The old man looked more like he was trying to jump-start a 1938 car engine than think—he rubbed his chin, and I couldn’t help comparing it to squeezing a bulldog’s face.
“Uhm…”
“Yeah?”
“Uhm…”
“Remembered yet?” I asked with the refrigerator door open—which isn’t ideal, not because it warms the sodas but because if there were dairy it could break the cold chain. I’m an idiot but situationally competent… sometimes.
“Aah… ah… uhm…” The old man was honestly trying, though he was closer to reaching nirvana than the soda. “Kiri.”
“I don’t know the brand bu—”
“Kiri always gives me a different one because they’re the most famous on TV.”
“Kiri?” So now the old guy had some kind of dementia mixing memories and present?
“The girl…”
“…Yeah, I’m pretty sure that’s a girl’s name…” I thanked the universe infinitely that the refrigerator handle wasn’t just plastic or I would’ve snapped it.
“She’s not working today?”
“N-no… she had to… do... things…” I answered, grabbing the first mango soda I found. This wrinkled old man knows her name?
So senile enough to forget a brand but not senile enough to read a name tag… though I’m not senile and I never bothered to do it.
By elimination I’m either an idiot or the old man is a pervert.
To preserve my dignity I’ll throw the bomb at the old man.
Sorry, nothing personal.
“You sure this is it?”
“Of course.” I put it in a bag, tied a small knot so it wouldn’t get wet in the rain.
“I didn’t see it on TV…”
“Ah, it’s… it’s new. The commercial hasn’t aired yet so you… uhm… are one of the first to try it.” I said, placing the bottle on the counter while checking my phone that had just vibrated.
[( ≧ᗜ≦)!!!]
“How much is it?” he asked, pulling a coin purse from his shirt pocket.
Yes, a coin purse.
So: mental gymnastics.
We have a thousand-year-old man with a coin purse—that tells me he’s not planning to pay with bills.
I don’t know the price of the soda and I know very, very well how slow old people are when paying for something.
Under no circumstances was I going through that, so… revenge.
“It’s free, sir. The brand is promoting it, so since you’re one of the first to try it, no charge!” I said, crossing back over the counter.
“Really bu—” The old man tried to speak while I placed the bag in his hand and—subtly but with all the enthusiasm in the universe—pushed him gently from the back toward the exit.
“Don’t worry, don’t worry. Looks like the rain brought you a lucky day… Just don’t tell anyone, okay? Brand policy.” I commented, escorting him out.
“Ooh, th-thanks then…” He squinted again, looking at my shirt.
“Tanaka. Forgot my name tag at home.” I answered, scratching the back of my neck.
“Typical of young people…” he muttered while shuffling down the sidewalk at a pace that made me want to launch him like a ball in any direction.
“Haaa… finally… god, this is awful…” I came back in, crossed the counter by inertia, sat in her chair, and let my forehead rest on the register. “So Kiri, huh…”
“16.50” I heard as the bathroom door opened.
“16:50 for a soda!? Why don’t you just start robbing people—at least that’s more honest.” I answered, turning my head a little.
“Chair.” She made the same gesture people use to shoo an animal.
“Ah, sorry…” I crossed back to the customer side. At this point there was no difference between me and one of those Olympic gymnasts doing floor routines.
“You… feeling better?”
“Let’s avoid the topic.”
“Okay… then uhm… what soda does the old guy always get?”
“Any.”
“How do you mean 'any'?”
“I just give him whichever is closest and tell him it’s famous.” She answered, sitting in her chair and picking up her phone.
“Of course.” I put it in a bag, tied a small knot so it wouldn’t get wet in the rain.
“I didn’t see it on TV…”
“Ah, it’s… it’s new. The commercial hasn’t aired yet so you… uhm… are one of the first to try it.” I said, placing the bottle on the counter while checking my phone that had just vibrated.
[( ≧ᗜ≦)!!!]
“How much is it?” he asked, pulling a coin purse from his shirt pocket.
Yes, a coin purse.
So: mental gymnastics.
We have a thousand-year-old man with a coin purse—that tells me he’s not planning to pay with bills.
I don’t know the price of the soda and I know very, very well how slow old people are when paying for something.
Under no circumstances was I going through that, so… revenge.
“It’s free, sir. The brand is promoting it, so since you’re one of the first to try it, no charge!” I said, crossing back over the counter.
“Really bu—” The old man tried to speak while I placed the bag in his hand and—subtly but with all the enthusiasm in the universe—pushed him gently from the back toward the exit.
“Don’t worry, don’t worry. Looks like the rain brought you a lucky day… Just don’t tell anyone, okay? Brand policy.” I commented, escorting him out.
“Ooh, th-thanks then…” He squinted again, looking at my shirt.
“Tanaka. Forgot my name tag at home.” I answered, scratching the back of my neck.
“Typical of young people…” he muttered while shuffling down the sidewalk at a pace that made me want to launch him like a ball in any direction.
“Haaa… finally… god, this is awful…” I came back in, crossed the counter by inertia, sat in her chair, and let my forehead rest on the register. “So Kiri, huh…”
“16.50” I heard as the bathroom door opened.
“16:50 for a soda!? Why don’t you just start robbing people—at least that’s more honest.” I answered, turning my head a little.
“Chair.” She made the same gesture people use to shoo an animal.
“Ah, sorry…” I crossed back to the customer side. At this point there was no difference between me and one of those Olympic gymnasts doing floor routines.
“You… feeling better?”
“Let’s avoid the topic.”
“Okay… then uhm… what soda does the old guy always get?”
“Any.”
“How do you mean 'any'?”
“I just give him whichever is closest and tell him it’s famous.” She answered, sitting in her chair and picking up her phone.
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