Sunday Story- Eidetic Part 3- Temerity

Here’s part 3 to the Eidetic story. Click to check out part 1 and part 2.

Temerity- excessive boldness or confidence

Ex:

I knew I had handled previous incidents with a touch too much misplaced temerity, but now was not the time to waver. I had to act fast. The incisor-shaped cavities above my ankle weren’t making things any easier. The man slithered out of the hole in the bull’s stomach like some un-chewed cud being returned to the earth, all sweaty and slimy. This was certainly an alley-cat, a dumpster-diving ruffian the likes of which were common in downtown Sheboygan. Though I had only seen him from a distance, it was already possible to make out some facial characteristics common to fetal alcohol syndrome; well color me surprised (not really).

I grimaced as I ran (hobbled) on over to the perp in the back of the store. “Freeze!” I yelled. Out of the corner of my eye I saw my manager roll his eyes. Really? Give me a break! I’m in the middle of putting my life on the line to protect his store and he’s giving me shit for being a little bit cringey? What did this guy want from me? To be an amazing loss-prevention maestro and to also have witty scene-specific dialogue like, “You mess with the bull, you better expect the horns, ole methy boy”? I made a mental note to take that up with our non-existent HR department later that week.

I quickly redirected my focus to the thief who was now rubbing his hands together and darting his eyes around the room like some sort of cracked out house fly trying to determine which piece of furniture he was going to try to haul out to the pickup truck parked out front. I thought back to my hours in the film room. I wondered what Darrelle Revis would do in this situation. He certainly wouldn’t let a skinny bugger like this escape the perils of Revis island now would he. So, I got down into my defensive stance and tried to ascertain the cleanest route to take in order to form-tackle this bum. I definitely wanted to avoid the pile of medieval pikes, that’s for sure. I heard that our old delivery guy Lonny once tripped on an untied shoelace and clipped his sack on the blade of a 14-century Swiss Halberd. There was blood everywhere, it sounded horrific.

I side-stepped the lances and spears, did a nifty little spin-move around the grandfather-clock that instead of chiming at the top of every hour it played a voice recording of Austin Powers saying “Groovy, baby!” (when 12 o’clock rolled around and you heard 12 straight groovy babies you suddenly felt yourself sympathizing a lot more with Dr. Evil’s cause), and made a b-line for the man, who, bewilderingly, was still standing there weighing his options. I was 20 feet away, he was still there. Then 10 feet, 5 feet, 1 foot, BOOM! I put my shoulder flush

into his ribcage, knocking him so hard on his ass that his head snapped back and cracked against one of the rear legs of the bronze bull with a dull metallic thud. Jesus. I knew I had some power, and I knew these guys were all skin and bones, but I didn’t expect to almost kill the guy. He was just lying there limp. Had I killed him? Well there was no time to check for a pulse, because in that moment I heard my manager let out a (hilarious) feminine scream (that I would 100% be giving him shit for later) from the front of the store.

I left the man who I had just crumpled up like a gum wrapper and hustled over to see what trouble my manager had run into. It looked as if the two robbers who I had shackled up earlier had somehow managed to free themselves from their zip-ties, probably through use of their little multi-tools that they kept in their pockets for all things drug use and distribution.  They had strung up my manager to an Okapi-pelt chair and were in the process of scooting towards the exit with a Pickle Rick beanbag chair and the stainless-steel GMC workbench from the ’08 auto bailout. I could see their intentions clear as day: they needed the bench to cook up some ice, and they obviously wanted the Pickle Rick beanbag to chill out on after sampling their product. These guys were more Jessie Pinkman than Walter White, if you catch my drift.

It looked like they had barreled over some, well…barrels, pixelated barrels a la Donkey Kong on the original Super Nintendo, which were flanking either side of the Okapi chair. There was only one route to take. So, naturally, I built up a head of steam and in one smooth motion stepped up onto my manager’s thigh, and then used the crown of his head like a springboard to propel myself up, up, up and down, down, down, with both arms fully extended- to use as battering rams- into the robbers, knocking them both out cold. “Kapow! BOOM! BAZAPP!” I made all the onomatopoeias I could think of, except this time my manager had no tongue-in-cheek comment to make. He just sat there stunned, with a foot-shaped indent in his otherwise well-coiffed hair.

I moved the furniture back to its original spot, untied my manager, and then called the cops to clean up the rest of the mess. It was all in a day’s work at Antique Addicts. As 5 o’clock rolled around (groovy baby, groovy baby, groovy baby, groovy baby, groovy baby) I packed up my belongings and fired off a, “B-dubs, TONIGHT!” text to the boys’ group chat. I asked my manager if he cared to join. He said he appreciated the gesture, but he was going to sit this one out. I told him we’d consult google if we needed any ultra-specific facts about restoring any early colonial Puritan candlesticks. He gave me a wink and a slap on the ass. I told him I was going to take that up with HR. We both turned to face the camera, and, in unison, belted out the line, “This is Sheboygan, we don’t have HR!”. *Laugh track plays* *Everything slowly fades to black.*