Shawn Stroope's True Shreveport Stories -- Vol 1

It was just before dark on Memorial Day as Shawn approached the counter at his neighborhood Texaco. He could see that the lone employee was more frustrated than usual. She was scrubbing the countertop so vigorously that Shawn wondered if she would soon break though the glass plate above the lotto tickets. She was obviously furious.
“What’s the matter?” Shawn wondered.
“I’ll tell you what’s the matter,” she snorted. “My husband done blowed eemself up!”
“What?!”
“I told him not to use so much d*%# liter fluid. I knew he was gonna blow himself up. Now he’s second degree burnt.”
“What? Wow. Did you take him to the hospital?”
“I caint. Somebody’s gotta work. My shift’s almost over.”
“So what, is he just waiting at home?”
“Naw, he’s back in the beer cooler.”
Shawn left the woman to her scrubbing and went to the walk-in beer closet. There on the floor was a pile of ten or so bags of ice. Extending out from the pile along the floor was a pair of blue jeaned legs crossed at the ankles—just above two very old brown work boots.