I'm bored. For those of you who knew me during my Beyblade stint, Bored Madeleine = Random One-Shots. Guard yourselves, dearie. Things are about to get crazy.
Gold hated the bell on his door.
It was a tiny, tinkly thing, designed to emit a cheerful chorus of sparkles, a serenade to anybody who walked in the door, and a discreet warning to sleazy shopkeepers to hide their illegal wares, somebody was approaching.
But no. The bell was obstinate. It was evil. It defied physics by clanking around in the most annoying way possible. It banged against the door, it banged against the glass screen, it banged against the ceiling, bouncing upwards for no apparent reason. The sound it made was more akin to that of faeries in torture, letting out a horrendous clankle, hoarse and eardrum-rupturing. The best way to describe it was somewhere between a shriek and the clatter of dishes falling.
He had tried everything: he had shortened the cord it hung on, lengthened it, polished the bell, hung weights on it, thrown it against the wall. He had bought a new one, only to have it stolen two weeks later. He had repainted the stinking thing. And still it insisted on causing pain to whoever was within hearing range.
So when the door clanged open one morning, when the bell assaulted Gold with its tortured and torturous clatter, he glared daggers at the entryway. This caused the little boy standing there to give him the 'I'm-about-to-cry' face that all children know and utilise regularly. This made Gold angrier, and he squeezed the head of his cane tightly to stop himself from throwing it at the stinking bell. The last thing he needed was a lawsuit from the child's hysterical parents. Although at least then something interesting would be happening, for once.
Almost as quickly as the boy's sad expression had taken over his face, it disappeared, and he became immensely distracted by the battered cigarette lighter on the shelf near him. Gold liked to keep the most boring items in the front of the store; it meant that only the most interesting people ever ventured to the back.
He did not classify this little boy as one of those few and precious interesting human beings. So he turned away from the counter, forced himself to forget about the STINKING bell, and became preoccupied with the grooves embedded in his palm from clutching the head of his cane so tightly.
When he looked up, there was the boy, standing just behind the counter, his little eyes barely reaching over the edge. "Hi", he said.
Gold spared him a non-committal grunt and turned towards the doorway, hoping to see his parents further forwards into the shop. No such luck. If the boy got into trouble, it would be just him and Gold. Wonderful. First the cold making his leg ache more than usual. Then the grooves in his palm. Then this boy. And the STINKING bell.
"HI", said the boy again, louder. "I'm Owen. I want to buy this." He put the lighter on the countertop expectantly. Gold wrinkled his nose at the thing. He had found it out on a walk; it appeared to have been run over by a car once or twice, rained on, and perhaps chewed on by a wayward beast. It had been leaking fluid when he brought it into the shop, so he'd left it on the shelf on top of a washrag, which Owen had neglected to bring with him when he had picked up the lighter. Said fluid was now leaking out onto the formerly pristine glass countertop. Gold once again clamped down hard on the head of his cane.
"Well, Owen, you can't buy this. It makes fire. I am not selling it to you without one of your parents' permission", Gold bit out, as evenly as possible.
"I know how to use a lighter", Owen answered.
"Oh, yes, I'm quite sure you do", Gold replied, mustering up as much sarcasm as possible.
Unfortunately, his effort was lost on the boy. "So I can buy it?"
"No."
"If I call my dad, can I buy it?"
Gold sighed, drawing a hand over his face. "I already told you you can buy it if you have your parents' permission."
"Why?"
"Because I don't want to be held responsible when you burn yourself on a lighter you bought from me."
"My mum always told me that we should never blame anyone else for the problems we bring on ourselves", Owen said gravely.
"Well, good for her, then."
"So...can I buy it?"
"NO", Gold said firmly, thumping his cane on the ground for emphasis. "Call your parents."
"You're not being very clear, Mr. Gold. What's your first name?"
Gold was taken aback. "What?"
"Your first name. What is it? It just says Mr. Gold on the front door."
"Well, then, that's what you can call me."
"I know. I was going to. I just wanted to know..."
"All you need to know is that you can call me Mr. Gold, and that you had better hurry up and call your parents before I make you leave this shop."
Owen nodded. "Deal. Can I use your phone, then?"
"What?"
"Your phone. Can I use it? I don't have my own. And you said I've gotta call my dad. So - "
"All right, all right, I get it", Gold interrupted. He dug around in the pockets of his suit until he found his cell phone. He tossed it to the boy. "Hurry up, now. Get it over with."
Gold was then subjected to the boredom of listening to a one-sided phone call.
"Hi, dad...good. Can I buy a lighter? A lighter. Can I buy it?...Yes, sir. Okay. So I can buy the lighter?...Yes?...Or no? Okay. Okay...yes sir. I can buy the lighter, right? Okay. Bye."
Owen handed back the phone. "He said yes."
If Gold had felt like being jerky, he would have insisted on calling Owen's father back and hearing the permission himself. But all he wanted to do was get the boy out of the shop. Then again, he would have to hear the infernal bell clattering about again.
Gold was jerked out of his thoughts by the wad of crumple cash landing on the counter in front of him. Three one-dollar bills, two of which were stuck together with a wad of chewed gum. The third had been torn clean in half and taped back together with double-sided tape, the outside of which was coated in lint. Gold poked them into the drawer of the cash register with a pen, declining to touch them.
"All right, then. Go on now. You got your lighter. Get it off my counter before the fluid runs all out of it."
Owen put the thing in his pocket. And then he waited.
He stood there.
He stared at Gold.
Gold stared at him.
Finally: "What are you waiting for?" Gold demanded, his knuckles going white on the head of the cane.
"Can I get a receipt?"
"What? How old are you - seven? What do you need a receipt for, to balance your budget!?"
"I'm ten", Owen said indignantly. "My dad told me to always ask for a receipt."
Gritting his teeth tightly, Gold printed a receipt from the machine and shoved it at the boy. "Anything else?" he demanded.
"You might want to not hold that cane so tightly, Mr. Gold. You might get marks on the palm of your hand."
"It's none of your business how tightly I hold my cane."
"Do you ever put your hair in a ponytail?"
Gold passed a hand over his face. How many times had he done that now? Two? Three?
"No. I don't. Can my interrogation please be over soon?"
Ignoring the sarcasm, Owen asked, "Then why's it so long, if you don't put it in a ponytail?"
"Because that's how I like it."
"Okay. Hey, Mr. Gold - "
"That's enough with your questions, lad. Get out of here. Go play with your lighter." Gold busied himself with attempting to remove the oily fluid from the top of the counter.
"Okay."
When Owen reached the front of the store, Gold could hear him messing with the dastardly bell, clattering it this way and that. Gold dropped his cane on the floor to stop himself from throwing it, steadying himself on the counter. "What on earth are you doing?" he called to the front of the store.
"Your bell's clapper is broken", said Owen. "I'm trying to fix it."
"Leave it alone", snapped Gold, limping to the door. By the time he got there, Owen was gone. He had fastened a braided lanyard, black and green, to the clapper of the bell, by way of a metal keychain ring. Gold gave it an experimental jostle. The keychain ring hit against the insides of the bell, and it sang out clear and homey. The bell never rang sour again.