In the small town where I live inhabited an old country store with the most Kool-Aid flavors for ten miles. The raggedy old woman who sits behind the counter spends the day calculating how much money she’s earned so far. Her frayed grey hair that hung down below her shoulders hid the questionable tattoos that resided along her neck and back. She dressed rather young considering how aged she appeared; her grey hair and tan, wrinkled, leathery skin screamed about 60 years old. She always wore tank tops with words like Harley Davidson scrolled across the front with her bra clasp showing in the back, jeans that had been chopped of clearly too short to be appropriate for work, but she didn’t care. The frayed ends hung down to about mid thigh and her mid-drift hung out just a bit too much. While she stocked the shelves of the 30 year old Stop N’ Shop, she gave everyone, a much to be desired, glace at her aging self. Kids 7 and under shouldn’t be allowed in there if she was stocking shelves. Her breasts sagged down to about her belly button, which was usually revealed when she stretched towards an upper shelf, the frayed ends of her shorts didn’t cover up her cellulite and her motorcycle boots were at least 20 years old. The black worn down leather boots weren’t even cool when they were new. The leather fringe hung down the side of them and the worn out soles were so thin you could practically see through the heel. We all called her Shelia, but I’m pretty sure her real name was Beth. When she was younger, a name like Shelia would have suited her just fine, but now that she was aged, it was more ironic than anything.
“Hey, Shelia!” some of the misfit teens would call to her, “Stocking the shelves again?”
“Of course yall,” She’d call back with much more enthusiasm than needed. I felt bad for her. She never realized they were mocking her. She just thought they were being considerate, friendly, and perceptive.