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“This is bullshit!” Eddie swears, throwing his arms up and nearly knocking over the display of cheap gum and candy behind him at the register.
“We have a strict policy,” James, the clerk says, tapping a worn Post-it note stuck to the small counter separating him from Eddie.
Eddie scoffs, rolling his eyes. “You mean to tell me that big man Bradley himself has requested his minimum wage employees police the amount of eggs that paying customers can buy?”
“Yes,” James says. “One dozen per person under the age of 21.”
“It’s not alcohol, James. It’s eggs.”
“Eggs, you and your freak friends use to damage property.”
“How many times do I have to tell you, I’m not going egging?”
“That’s what they all say.”
Eddie wants to scream.
Sure, shitty kids in this town have been known to buy dozens of eggs just to hurl them at homes and people, but he’s not one of them. At least, not the one that’s doing the throwing; he has had his fair share of being on the receiving end, though, which is why he wouldn’t stoop to such low activities.
Egging is beneath him. It’s not creative enough of a punishment for the assholes in this town — and yeah, okay, maybe it’s also because he can’t throw an egg to save his life much less hit the right target but that’s beside the point.
Eddie fingers through his wallet, plucking out a handful of bills. He slams them down over the worn Post-it note and shoves them towards James. “Just take the money and give me my eggs.”
He reaches over, yanking one of the cartons into his hands. He moves to grab the second, but James’s faster, swatting it out of Eddie’s grasp. It hits the edge of the counter on the way down, opening and sending a dozen of eggs to the ground. A few crack at Eddie’s feet, covering his boots in fresh yolks, while a handful roll down towards the exit.
“Damn it,” James swears, flicking raw egg from his own hands. “That’s the dozen you’re payin’ for.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Eddie growls. The entire store is looking at him now, including a bruised and battered Steve Harrington, who's clearly seen better days. At least someone is having a worse day than he is. “I’m not paying for those! I’m paying for three cartons of uncracked eggs.”
“You’re not paying for a damn thing,” James says, yanking the phone free from it’s base beside the register. “I’m calling the police.”
Eddie can’t help himself; he laughs this time. “For eggs?”
“No, for assaulting an employee.”
“I didn’t even touch you! You touched me!”
“We’ll see about that,” James says, dialing the number to the Hawkins Police Department.
Eddie does scream this time, letting out a primal groan of frustration. “You’re a piece of shit James. I hope you get a raise for being the patron saint of fucking eggs!” He snatches the money from the counter, shoving it into the pockets of his jacket before stalking out of the store with both middle fingers raised.
Fucking James. Eddie knew he should have waited in Mable's long line. She may take twice as long, but at least she would have let Eddie make his totally reasonable purchase. Hell, she probably would have offered him a quiche or egg salad recipe because that’s the kind of person Mable is. She’s considerate -- something James is not.
But no. He just had to pick stupid James’s line because it was the shortest. He should have known better. It’s always the same with his type — lame ass jocks who peaked in high school and are now stuck in their hometown making life miserable for everyone else.
Eddie’s too fired up to get behind the wheel right now, so he pulls out a cigarette instead. The nicotine does little to curb the frustration coursing through him, but at least it gives him something to do besides marching back into the store and starting something with James, he knows he’ll lose.
After taking a long drag, he glances at the watch on his wrist. It’s five to eight; far too late to get in the car and drive the twenty miles to the next down over and pick up three dozen eggs. Gertrude is going to be mad. And then Wayne is going to be pissed when she and her gang retailiate against their trash.
Fucking James.
Eddie finishes his cigarette, snubbing out the end with the boot of his foot. He’s about to climb into his van when he’s accosted by none other than Steve Harrington. Great. Just what Eddie needs. Another lame, has-been jock giving him shit for simply existing.
Steve’s eye is a deep shade of purple. There’s dried blood caked into the corner of his cracked lip, and there are remnants of some cheap band-aid adhesive around a gash above his eyebrow that probably needs stitches. And that’s just his face. He’s walking smaller, curled in like every step he takes closer to Eddie physically pains him. He probably shouldn’t be lugging around two paper bags full of groceries either, but what does Eddie know? He’s not a doctor.
“You look like shit, Harrington.”
“A plate to the side of the head will do that to you.”
Eddie winces. He’s been hit in the head by a fair share of objects, but never a plate which leads him to wonder who Harrington pissed off. He doesn’t ask. Instead, he deflects. “Bet the other guy looks even worse.”
Steve snorts, immediately grimacing. “Sure, let’s go with that.”
Eddie fidgets, feet shuffling. This is the longest he’s ever been in Steve’s presence outside of mandated classes, and he doesn’t know what to say to him. Especially not when his face looks like that. Thankfully, he doesn’t have to because Steve moves, holding out one of the brown paper bags for Eddie to take.
“Does the liege need an assistant to his chariot?” Eddie asks, staring at the heavy brown bag Steve’s struggling to keep hold of. “I’m sure one of the fair maidens inside would have assisted you.”
Eddie waits for Steve to scoff and give him shit for speaking like some medieval idiot; but the judgment doesn’t come. At least, not in the form of harsh words. He does get a front row seat to Steve Harrington’s bitchy eye roll though so it’s not a total loss.
“These are for you.”
“For me?” Eddie asks, reluctantly taking the bag from Steve’s hand. He glances inside, almost afraid that something is going to pop out of him. Instead, he finds not one, not two, not even three, but four dozen eggs carefully stacked in the bag. “What the hell?”
“I heard you arguing with James inside,” Steve says. “He’s a jerk. I mean, the guy is working a minimum wage cashier job and he’s still finding ways to be a total douchebag.”
“So what? You just went to a different cashier and bought four dozen eggs?”
“No,” Steve says, shaking his head. “I went back to James with three dozen eggs, and he threw in the fourth for free so I could ‘teach whatever freak that rearranged my face a lesson’.”
“Fuckin’ hypocrite.”
“Tell me about it.”
Eddie blinks, the reality of the situation hitting him all at once. Ten minutes ago he was nearly arrested for trying to buy eggs and now he’s standing out here holding four dozen bought and paid for by Steve “the hair” Harrington who took a plate to the head less than 48 hours ago if his bruises are anything to go by.
What the hell is going on in this town?
“I uh,” Eddie starts, then stops, shaking his head. “You didn’t have to do that, but thanks.”
“It wasn’t a big deal. I mean, they’re just eggs, right?”
“Just eggs to you and me maybe,” Eddie says. “But these things are gold to Gertrude. You saved my ass from her wrath.
“Gertrude?”
“My pet. She loves eggs.”
“I didn’t know dogs could eat eggs.” Something washes over Steve in an instant — a look of panic if Eddie’s not mistaken. His eyes grow wide and then narrow into slits as they scan the permiter of the parking lot. His grip on the bag tightens as his entire body goes stiff. And then he’s leaning closer, lips practically touching Eddie’s ear as he drops his voice. “It is a dog, right? Like a furry, wagging tail with a full face kind of dog?”
“Are there dogs without faces?” Eddie asks, suddenly very concerned for Steve’s well-being. If he didn’t get stitches for the gash over his eyebrow, there’s no way he got looked at for a concussion. Maybe he’s hallucinating right now. That would explain why he willingly bought four dozen eggs for Eddie of all people. “Are you concussed still, Harrington? Do you need a ride home or something?”
“I need to know who is eating all these eggs,” Steve says, deathly serious. He takes a step closer, backing Eddie up against the van. “It’s not a dog, is it?”
Eddie shakes his head.
“Does it have a face?”
“Man, what are you—“
“Does it have a face, Eddie?” Steve shouts, startling a few shoppers headed to and from their cars.
Eddie’s never been more grateful for ease droppers than right now because Steve takes a few steps back, giving Eddie enough space to take a deep breath and try to figure out what the fuck is going on.
“Eddie, I swear to—”
“Gertrude is a raccoon!” Eddie says in a rush. “She’s a mother racoon who lives in Forest Hills and thinks she owns the damn place. She had babies this year, and I’ve been feeding them so they stay out of our trash.
"Apparently, Gertrude is a gossip and told other raccoons, and now we have a whole horde of them. If I don’t leave scrambled eggs out on the porch, they wreak havoc on the entire park.”
“Oh.” Steve takes several steps back now, clearly satisfied by Eddie’s answer. “Are they cute?”
Eddie’s not a hundred percent sure it’s possible to get whiplash from a conversation, but if it is, he’s experiencing a pretty severe case of it right now. “Are you sure you’re not concussed?”
Steve waves him off. “Hop gave me the all clear last night. Told me to ice it with some peas, which is why I came here.”
“Okay…”
“So is she cute? This Gertrude raccoon?”
“I mean, she’s a raccoon, so yes, obviously.”
“Right,” Steve nods, then glances at the bag in Eddie’s hand. “Four dozen eggs is a lot for one person to make. Do you want some help?”
Jesus H. Christ, what is going on right now?
“You, Steve Harrington, want to help me make scrambled eggs for a family of raccoons?”
Steve shrugs. “Beats sitting at home alone with a bag of peas on my head.”
“What the hell,” Eddie mutters to himself, before turning to Steve. “Alright, Harrington. You can come help, but no distractions. If we don’t have eggs out on the porch by 9:30, Gertrude will make us pay.”
“Nothing’s scarier than a hungry woman,” Steve jokes. “Lead the way.”