The Tiny Truck I Knew

C’mon.

Stupid computer.

I wiggle the mouse beside the photo printer. The spinning blue circle still hovers beside the white arrow. Ugh. Saturdays always get busy, of course. I don’t have time for delays. Mister Watson had reminded our team just this morning: “We promise five-star customer service here at Walgreens. That means the front register, the pharmacy, and the photo center. Looking at you, Landon.” Thanks a lot, boss.

With a sigh, I slump onto the blue-cushioned stool, hiding behind the computer monitor. I lower my elbows onto the slick counter, covering my ears with my rough hands. Bon Jovi’s “Who Says You Can’t Go Home” is blaring through the store’s overhead speakers for what must be the fiftieth time since I started working here. A month has passed since my eighteenth birthday, the “age of majority,” so I finally got this real job as a prize. Yippee. My next paycheck can pay for the bike chain that broke on the way over today.

Finally! The last dozen queued photos had finished uploading. Must’ve been high-res. Sick. I transfer the order to the printing queue, and the gray machine next to me groans to life: beep—beep—beep. If only I’d ever have a dozen high-res photos of my never-going-to-happen college graduation. Our latest photo pick-up customer, Annabelle Meier, must be sooo proud of her accomplished son. As I reach for my orange juice below the counter, my hair swoops into my face and I knock over the bottle. Phew. At least the lid was on this time.

I tilt my head back for a chug, the taste of sugar bringing me some sense of life. And the pseudo-anthem of this drug store fades out overhead: “…it's alright, it's alright, it's alright.”

“Hello there!”

I shake my head to find a gray-haired woman with a purple scarf idling at the counter.

"Oh, hiya!” I shove my breakfast under the surface between us. “How can I help you?”

“I’m here to pick up my order,” she says.

"Okay, yes! What’s your last name?”

“Tucker.”

“Got it. Just a sec!”

I ditch the cheery smile as soon as I about-face. Tucker. Tucker. Tucker. I reach the last-name “T” bin and flip through the open orders. Taylor. Thompson. Thornton. Trotter. Tully. Wait…Trotter. Tully. No Tucker?

So I rifle through the bin a second time. No Tucker. Great. The last thing I need is Mister Watson hounding me for the cost of reprints again. Or heaven forbid Missus Tucker leaving us a sour review for having to wait on her precious order. Ugh. I sift through the nearby “S” and “U” bins just in case. No Tucker. With a huff, I flick my hair out of my eyes and restart my lovely smile.

“Oh, Missus Tucker. I’m sorry. What was your first name?”

“It’s Phoebe.”

“Got it! Sorry, I just need to double-check something.”

“Sure.”

Can I stall enough to reprint right in front of her? With this stupid computer’s speed today, she’d see right through it, surely. I crouch, hidden from the customer’s view, sifting through the manila folders and three-ring binders below the counter. What even is this junk anyway? C’mon, c’mon. Tucker. There’s got to be something here for her.

I peek my eyes just above the surface like at the edge of a pool. And Missus Tucker fidgets with some chapstick or whatever other impulse-buys Mister Watson rotated over to the photo center this week. Oh! An extra bin was hidden behind the spare stool’s backing. From my crouched stance in my tattered jeans, I waddle to my left and check. C’mon, c’mon. Aha! Tucker! Phew.

“Missus Tucker? Here you go! Sorry again about the short wait.” I offer the teal envelope and a beaming grin. A five-star grin.

“Thank you very much,” she says, turning and walking away.

I plop into the stool again, straightening my red employee vest. Ugh. During that fiasco, another request hit the import queue. With the new batch of photo files, I start the rendering and pull out a blank envelope for the previous prints that are about to finish. Sidney Spencer. The family beach vacation photos. Fantastic. Of course, we’re not really supposed to pry, just check for misprints. But I cycle through the photo stack, unable to stick strictly to my job.

The Spencer parents must’ve enjoyed their fall break or something. Their little blonde boy laughs between them in the sandy sunset, holding his parents’ hands with glee and giggling: tee-hee-hee! The next one shows their brown lab panting under an umbrella in the midday sun. I always wondered what having a dog would be like. Never felt any sandy beaches either. And having paren—

"Ahem, excuse me!”

I drop the Spencer photo stack, sweeping my hair back.

“Hi, I’ve got an order for pick-up,” the young, dark-haired woman says.

“Yes, yes.” She’s attractive as all get-out with her brown eyes. “What’s your last name?”

“Oh, it’s Joyce.” The toddler boy she’s holding whips his head around and catches me with a wide-eyed stare of too-young-to-know-you confusion.

“Okay, just a sec. Let me…” I had tried to add, “grab that for you,” but I had turned away without finishing my words. Was that toddler slobbering on…? No way.

With the “J” bin in reach, I flip through—the letters scramble in my vision. Jackson. Jefferies. Jennings. Joyce. Bingo! I snatch the “Joyce” envelope, but my legs freeze. My vest tightens across my admittedly scrawny shoulders. How could that little kid…?

Tink…tunk!

“Oh, Timmy! Hey, excuse me?”

I spin around to the hotness—urrr, waiting customer.

“Could you grab my son’s Hot Wheel? He loves to throw things where they don’t belong.”

“Uhh, yes. Yes, of course.”

I bend down to retrieve the tiny truck. The red truck. With the front silver grooved grille. And the black rims with gold trim. Below the rounded, wide-body fenders. Dark flames streaked along both sides of the body. The tiny truck I knew before the word “foster” ever had a chance to enter my youthful vocabulary.

To ignore my tight chest, I hold out the moist Hot Wheel toward Timmy and the thin envelope toward his mother. I hope I’m smiling. I was trying to smile, at least.

“Oh, thank you so much, dear. Have a nice day!”

The hot lady and her son, with remarkable taste in toys, are well out of earshot by the time I utter, “You too.”

Hmmmm—whirrrrr—plick!

Another printed photo plops out of the machine to my right.