Regular Ol' Wednesday Night

Wednesday. 7:30 PM. Fernando sits at his desk and waits for 8 PM to roll around, so he can close up the store and go home. He is excited to do so, for he had conversed earlier with one of his fine comrades about some delectable chicken piccata she had recently enjoyed at a restaurant, and this discussion caused a great longing for the Italian Schitzel-analogue to fester in his belly.

As merry thoughts of breaded and fried chicken dance in Fernando's head, a vehicle pulls up. Some people climb out and a few moments later the chimes above the door tinkle.

“Hello,” Fernando greets his guests. Then he stops and squints at one of them, the only one he recognizes of the bunch. It is a man in his early 20s, the kind of person who finds injecting copious amounts of ink beneath his epidermis to be a laudable pastime. Perhaps he felt that an abundance of tats made him look more intimidating, or showed off his rebellious spirit.

Really all it accomplished for him on this night was jarring Fernando's memory and sending the Dominion's Keeper straight to his forever-ago late list. The last time this gent had come into the store had been about a year ago. He rented two movies and had been a little bit tardy in returning them. When he brought them back and rented five more, he paid off his late fee. No big deal.

Those movies had been out for a much greater length of time. While they, too, eventually found their way into the Dominion's drop box, five movies times six days times nightly late fees added up. To seventy-five dollars, in fact.

The visitors are quick in gathering tags from the new release rack and bring them all up to deposit on the counter. Tattoo Tom says to Fernando, “Hey man. What's up?”

“Not too much. Could I get your name?” While Fernando is almost positive that the bloke standing before him owes seventy-five dollars, it could very well be the case that Fernando has mistaken a newcomer with the other tattooed man.

But, no. “I'm Tattoo Tom. Been a while since I came here.”

“I'll say. You've got some late fees, if you wanted to put something down on them.”

“Really? Shit. How much?”

“Seventy-five dollars.”

“Whoa,” he says, stepping back. “Why so much?”

“You had out five movies for six days.”

“And?”

“And that resulted in seventy-five dollars in late charges.”

“Hold on,” he says. “The time before I only had like seven bucks or something.”

“Eight, most likely. Two movies, two days. But this is five movies and six days.”

“Well does he have to pay it all off now?” asks one of his companions, a rather attractive young woman.

Fernando shrugs. “I'd be content with half now, and then we can trickle in the rest bit by bit.”

“That's still like thirty bucks,” says the girl.

“Thirty-seven fifty, actually. But I'd settle even for thirty-five. An honest showing of penitence to get the ball rolling.”

“I don't know if have that much,” Tattoo Tom says. “How much do these come to?”

Fernando totals the rentals mentally. “Nineteen bucks.”

“So that would be...?” Tattoo Tom asks, scowling.

“Fifty-four dollars all together, with thirty-five on the late fee.”

This exasperates Tattoo Tom, for his blows air from his mouth. “That's a lot of money.”

Fernando shrugs.

“Let me...let me run to the ATM machine real quick,” he says.

“That's fine.” The three visitors exchange a quick look and skedaddle.

Fernando isn't quite sure why Tattoo Tom had to run to the ATM at McMurdo Station, Antarctica, to retrieve his money, but he's positive he'll be back any day now.

The chicken piccata also turned out splendidly.