Checking Out
Apr. 6th, 2008 07:12 pmTitle: Checking Out
Character: Dewey Ceinion
Rating: PG
Word count: 369
Notes:
itsproductivity 4/1: You're in a grocery store.
He prefers the self-checkout lane. It's easy now that he's only buying for one; every shopping list can be taken down to fifteen items or fewer, and there's almost never a line. He bags his own groceries-- eggs don't really need their own bag, that's always bothered him.
He lives on sandwiches and omelets, mostly. And coffee and cigarettes. And chewing gum. 24-packs of Coke, cases of microbrew from whichever tiny brewery he's run across this week, a bag of whatever fruit's on sale, multivitamins and fast food. Sometimes he comes in just to stick his head in the frozen foods section, one door at a time, pretending to read the labels of organic microwaveable dinners and cheap ice cream cartons, and leaves with a 50-cent pack of gum because he feels stupid leaving a grocery store empty-handed.
Dewey doesn't like grocery shopping-- he doesn't much like being out when he's not on the job, and he's almost always on the job. Being a vice cop in Vegas isn't like anything he's ever done before; even a few months into the assignment he's still shocked by what he comes across. He can't look across a street without thinking he sees a drug deal, and every woman waiting on a street corner could be a woman he arrests tomorrow night.
He stopped going through the checkout lanes after he had to bring in the boy who bagged his groceries two days later on prostitution and drug dealing charges.
He goes home, plays with his hamsters, watches Jeopardy and reruns of Seinfeld. His kitchen is clean; his living room is easy enough to tidy up; no one cares that his bedroom's a wreck. Shopping's not the only thing that's easier now that it's only for one. He barely notices that his is the only voice in the apartment.
There are three locks on his apartment door. He cleans his gun before he brushes his teeth every night. He lays out his suit for the next day, doesn't meet his own eyes in the mirror, and before he falls asleep he thinks about the city he's in, "cashing out my chips for the night," listening to sirens and cars and the neverending people outside his window.
Character: Dewey Ceinion
Rating: PG
Word count: 369
Notes:
![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
He prefers the self-checkout lane. It's easy now that he's only buying for one; every shopping list can be taken down to fifteen items or fewer, and there's almost never a line. He bags his own groceries-- eggs don't really need their own bag, that's always bothered him.
He lives on sandwiches and omelets, mostly. And coffee and cigarettes. And chewing gum. 24-packs of Coke, cases of microbrew from whichever tiny brewery he's run across this week, a bag of whatever fruit's on sale, multivitamins and fast food. Sometimes he comes in just to stick his head in the frozen foods section, one door at a time, pretending to read the labels of organic microwaveable dinners and cheap ice cream cartons, and leaves with a 50-cent pack of gum because he feels stupid leaving a grocery store empty-handed.
Dewey doesn't like grocery shopping-- he doesn't much like being out when he's not on the job, and he's almost always on the job. Being a vice cop in Vegas isn't like anything he's ever done before; even a few months into the assignment he's still shocked by what he comes across. He can't look across a street without thinking he sees a drug deal, and every woman waiting on a street corner could be a woman he arrests tomorrow night.
He stopped going through the checkout lanes after he had to bring in the boy who bagged his groceries two days later on prostitution and drug dealing charges.
He goes home, plays with his hamsters, watches Jeopardy and reruns of Seinfeld. His kitchen is clean; his living room is easy enough to tidy up; no one cares that his bedroom's a wreck. Shopping's not the only thing that's easier now that it's only for one. He barely notices that his is the only voice in the apartment.
There are three locks on his apartment door. He cleans his gun before he brushes his teeth every night. He lays out his suit for the next day, doesn't meet his own eyes in the mirror, and before he falls asleep he thinks about the city he's in, "cashing out my chips for the night," listening to sirens and cars and the neverending people outside his window.