Friday Flash Fiction – Negotiating Texas

Negotiating Texas by Bryl R. Tyne

(excerpt from a WIP)

Wasn’t the wisest business decision I’d ever made. Every other day, stretching my lunch hour into two had become a necessity of late, though. Better to avoid stress causing incidents than risk the fluctuations in blood pressure. Dr. Canton assured me, my health would benefit if I recognized and stepped away from situations that all but got my panties in a twist. Panties . . . may be the leverage needed to wheedle information out of one Texas Owens, owner of the newly established Granny Owens Bagels and More.

“Another refill, Mr. Vizion?”

Mind deep in strategizing, I half smiled—half grimaced at the waitress, Joanie. She must’ve wondered why a deli owner would take lunch halfway across town, but in three weeks, she hadn’t let on she thought I played short a full deck. I didn’t, just had a bit of a temper. Type-A personality, the doctor called it. Despite my moods—my assistant Marty’s assigned word to my typical reactions—Joanie never seemed to mind.  So pleasant and always helpful, too bad she and I didn’t have matching junk; I may have asked her out sometime. “Thanks, Joanie. But I’d better get back.”

Every minute away from my shop, I chanced losing another customer to that fat bastard set up across the street. All belly and with that bearded, cheeky smile, Santa Claus appeared a dreary fellow compared to Tex Owens. Only six weeks since he’d opened his doors and already he’d persuaded ten percent of my most loyal customers to give Granny Owens a try.

I left money to cover the tab on the table and gathered my things, concluding Dr. Canton was wrong. Avoiding button-pushing situations may be best for my heart, but no amount of avoidance would compensate my monetary needs. Whether Owens’ secret in drawing a crowd equated to his business practices, his menu, or his charm, if I wanted to uncover his tactics, I’d have to move in closer not distance myself.

I tucked my portfolio under my arm and slid my wallet into my pocket on my way out the door. Bastard Owens had another think coming if he thought for a second he’d outdo or outsell Julian’s Delicatessen. I’d show him.

* * * * *

One final traffic light and I’d be back to work. I blended into the crowd paused for the neon red hand.  Swinging into Granny Owens, second building to my right, came to mind, but sighting that bastard across the street exiting my place, I shoved to the front of the crowd.

No sooner had the walk symbol lit up, I sprinted along the walkway, elbowing my way through oncoming foot traffic.

He was as welcome in my place as the bird flu, and I’d make sure he knew it too. I cleared the street and rounded on to the sidewalk, halting steps before the apron adorned, jolly . . . “Owens—”

“Jules,” he intervened, full bottom lip curved in amusement, one of my to-go cups tilted in mock greeting, as he stepped around me, waddling back to his side of the street.

Yes, waddled, how apropos for a man named after his size.  Bastard in fiery orange burning into my mind like a Vegas marquee, I threw open the glass door to my shop and stormed inside.

“Afternoon, Jul—” Marty stopped, mid-greeting, as I’m sure my look demanded.

I marched past him, cleared the back counter, no words exchanged, and straight into my office. With the slam of the door, I realized Marty may have arrived at his opinion on my moodiness honestly. Right then, I felt like I wanted to tear that smug Owens’ head from his shoulders.

My chair wobbled on its springs, as I slammed into it, tossing my portfolio on my desk. Too young to keel over from a heart attack, I needed to get a grip.