You had been staring at the shoe guy for what felt like a creepily long time now, but he still hadn't noticed. You were currently being yelled at by an unfairly rude man who kept jabbing his sweaty finger at THAT blue, red and white striped (God bless America) factory finish 4000 grit bowling ball, not the white, red and blue striped factory finish 3500 grit bowling ball that sat, deeply ashamed, in it's glass cabinet, knowing it would never satisfy the 7th fat old man you had been too busy staring at the shoe guy to even give a second to. You had decided to mentally document his features for future generations, because future generations needed to know about the shoe guy and the way he smiled - like a scarecrow from a kid's book, all big laughs and crooked grins at dumb jokes. You stuck to your counter, only a few meters of distasteful fizzy-drink-sticky carpet between you and him, as he stood diligently stacking aeons-old bowling shoes into neat rows, his head turned to a co-worker and his mouth split open, barks of laughter leaping out and across the room, tugging your mouth into a small smile.

pYou had been watching him all day, catching glimpses of dark eyes and dark curls between dusty wooden shelves and slushy machines. You were not normally so fixated, but when you worked in a place as marketable-family-fun-a-third-off-all-birthday-parties as The Alley, you tried to cling on to the tiniest shred of salvation you could find in the perpetually sticky half-deflated ball-pit of a workday.

"HEY. HEY YOU, NEWBIE."

You had been working as an Executive Equipment Sales(wo)man for a few months now, yet to all but no one, you were still not so affectionately referred to as "Newbie". Your boss, Mr Wilson, was notorious for establishing eye contact and maintaining it for as long as humanly possible while causing the most discomfort possible, and he certainly didn't fail now. With an excellent display of fear-inducing maintained eye contact, he grabbed the microphone in the glass tannoy box to once again humiliate you, as he so enjoyed doing. Everyone turned to face him. The box was a fast food place and a shoe guy away from you, and his voice boomed with migraine-inducing resonance over the royalty-free elevator music you found yourself humming off-hours on numerous infuriating occasions.

"REPORT TO MY OFFICE-" A painful and nausea-inducing squeal of feedback rung through The Alley - he slammed the microphone with his palm, only making it worse. He attempted to speak into the mic again, but the projected voice warbled and fitzed into jumpy screeches of voice and static.

"JUST G-ET I-NH-EREEEEeeee!"

You took a deep breath and curled your bottom lip up. Stepping out from behind the your counter, you held your shoulders high and balled your fists in an attempt to seem coolly nonchalant, like some kind of 1940's detective reporting to his deputy because he'd figured out whodunnit - only to crash and burn like a flammable thing on a collision course with the ground when you suddenly felt shoe guy's eyes on you as rounded your death march past his counter. You weren't sure whether to look at him or near him or even to avoid looking at him at all - a coolly nonchalant 1940's detective would stroll over and lean on the counter, place a cigarette between his teeth and light it - then probably shine a light in his face and say "I KNOW IT WAS YOU" and then throw a chair or something. You decided that approach probably wouldn't scream "I think you have a nice smile and food maybe?" Just as soon as he had looked up, you caught him turn his head away in your peripheral vision, responding to something his co-worker had said with an indiscreet nod in your direction.

You balled your fists tighter and kept walking.

(~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~)

After an almost collision with a flushed looking lady squeezed into a sequin shift dress (and holding more drinks than you believed was legally safe) you arrived at the glass gates of Hell. You took a deep breath and repressed the urge to quietly pep talk yourself - Mr Wilson was undoubtedly the most strangely intense man you had ever met, as was clear when you knocked on the door to his Business Office/Tannoy box and slowly pushed it open. He held himself high, one leg propped up on his desk chair like some kind of conqueror, staring thoughtfully out onto his neatly-bordered-bowling-pin domain through his window. The man had a deeply emotional passion for bowling in a way that was both upsetting and strangely inspiring. His hair looked as taxidermied as ever, and his ensemble packed a punch with several different exciting shades of beige.

"Ah! You've arrived! Welcome to my humble abode!"

He gestured more widely than you thought was possible in such a cramped room. You twisted your fingers together behind your back - a nervous habit - and braced yourself for the emotional fallout of figuring out how on God's green earth you were fired from a job that a baby could manage efficiently. What if you never saw shoe guy again?

"I've got some great news for you, newbie!" You returned the blazing eye contact Mr Wilson had been making since you stepped in while some strange deflated form of hope grew in the pit of your stomach - kind of like being relieved at having dodged a bullet and then it ricocheting. Repeatedly. "A recent employee decided that he was not worthy of employment in this fine establishment-" He swept a finger accusingly across a mostly empty trophy shelf - a small plume of dust rose into the recycled air. "-And there is an employment opportunity in the textiles department! You'd work longer hours, but that's nothing you can't handle, right? - Plus, you can't argue with a $5 raise..."

It is safe to say I could not argue with a $5 raise. You decided an external reply was probably needed.

"Uh, yeah, okay."

He smiled like a reflection in a fun-house mirror. "That's what I like to hear! You start-" His voice slowly trailed off, his eyes wide with shock and suddenly drawn to something behind you. "Uhh, you start now! Yep, right now!"

"Wait, wha-" He swooped around his tiny desk and began to usher you quickly out the door.

"On your way, lets go, we'll iron out the details later!" His voice was almost a harsh whisper now as he shoved you past his door and hid bravely behind it.

You turned to the row of counters and suddenly saw what he was so shocked about - a dude in his late twenties was barking at shoe guy (You suddenly felt very protective over him for a guy you'd never even spoken to) and was red-faced with fury. He swivelled and caught Mr Wilson as he ducked behind his door. "YOU!" He boomed, striding over to the Business Office/Tannoy box. You quickly dived out the way, avoiding eye contact and walking swiftly in any direction that registered as AWAY. You did not want in on whatever mess Mr Wilson had landed himself in. In then registered that you had no idea what the "Textiles department" was, or that The Alley even had one.

Bewildered, you turned just in time to see an object of indeterminable size sail through the air, reaching Mach 5 before being cut short by the sudden obstacle of your head. Another yell from your left and a sharp intake of air, and you were down like a felled tree.