Novelty Shop

A Short Story by P.A. Tennant

The door chimed angrily at him as he began to exit the car. He slumped back into the driver’s seat with a frustrated grunt and a muttered curse, fumbling under the steering column until his fingers found the keys. Pulling them out, he threw them into the center console, where they clattered next to the big gulp that sat sweating in the oversized cup holder. Grabbing hold of the doorframe, he launched himself out of the vehicle once again.

Rental cars were the worst. You never knew from one car to the next what alarms, bells, or whistles it came with. Or, what side of the car the gas tank was on. He stood motionless in the hot afternoon sun, feeling the heat of the rays burn through to his scalp, and stared forlornly at the gas cap, which had inconveniently positioned itself on the wrong side of the car.

With a sigh of resignation, he eye-balled the length of the hose, did some mental math, and decided it could make it. Walking to the pump, he played hide-and-seek with his credit card and punched in his zip code. The hose stretched tight over the trunk, he began filling up.

While the pump serenely chugged, and dollars danced their way across the screen, he looked around the station for any sign of life. It was the height of the afternoon on a bright sunny day and not another soul was in sight. The air was still with no discernible breeze. Nothing moved. Absolutely nothing.

The only sound was the steady churn of the gas pump, and when it shut off, he jumped as the loud click from the pump handle broke the silence. No birds, no bugs, no trash skittering its way across the concrete. He felt an urge to yell, “Hello!” but held himself in check. He wondered if anyone was even working there, and if “self-serve” actually meant “you’re all on your own, bud.”

A feeling of isolation washed over him, a cold wave of irrational fear. He could feel heat rise-up his neck and his cheeks flush. The early signs of one of the panic attacks that had become common these past few months. The constriction in his chest made him acutely aware of how fast his heart was beating, and he swore he could feel eyes watching him from behind the dark glass of the station. Quickly removing the gas nozzle, he re-seated it in the pump, slammed the cap shut – “No, I don’t want a stupid receipt,” he told the machine – and hopped back in the car.

For a brief moment he searched for the keys, and then remembered where he’d thrown them. Firing up the engine, he pulled away from the pump, tires squeaking on the dirty concrete, and headed back to the deserted highway.

As the station receded into the distance the feeling of panic subsided along with it. The words of the shrink played in his head, and he cycled through the breathing exercises that were supposed to calm him down. “It’s just your subconscious mind trying to manifest some suppressed childhood trauma,” the doc had said. “Sure,” he thought, “they can put that on my tombstone after I keel over from a heart attack. ‘He manifested himself into an early grave.’ Comforting.”

He grabbed the giant plastic cup from the cupholder and took a long drag of the cold syrupy liquid. The carbonation was sharp on his tongue, and he felt a tickle trace its way into his nose. He fought the urge to sneeze, dropped the cup back into its rightful place, and turned his attention to the road.

The boring routine of driving soon took over and he occupied himself with a futile search for a decent radio station. The seek button took him from static to twang and back again, and he was reminded of a line from the Blues Brothers movie – we got both kinds of music, country and western. He chuckled to himself with a smile that was mostly a grimace, and switched the radio off.

Taking the road less traveled had seemed like a good idea at the time. Get off the highway. Take some country roads. See sights he hadn’t seen before. Maybe stop at a little roadside diner instead of eating another fabricated meal at a chain restaurant. When the job meant you spent most of your time on the road, it meant the job was pretty monotonous, and a change seemed good. Mostly, though, he just wasn’t in a hurry to get home.

As if on cue, his phone started to vibrate from its perch on the passenger seat. The screen lit up, announcing an incoming call from Susan. His chest began to tighten at the sight of her name. That name carried the weight of adulthood. The obligations of children, a mortgage, car payments, medical bills. All the trappings of responsibility he’d tried to avoid that were now crushing him.

“Not now, Suze,” he thought, and let it go to voicemail. A mile down the road the phone dinged, indicating a lengthy message. He leaned over, opened the glove box, threw the phone in, and slammed the door shut. Responsibility was waiting for him and would be upon him soon enough. For now, he was happily alone.

The miles continued to roll by, and silence settled in as his companion. Trees, farms, and fields flashed by with nothing to break the monotony but the occasional billboard. A smiling figure with greasy hands holding a wrench announced that Carl was more than happy to repair your engine, “Big or Small, We Do It All.” Darlene had some fine real estate for sale, and the giant headshot with the ‘80s hair certainly gave the impression that she was someone who could be trusted. Breakfast was always on at Coops, so “Bring Your Appetite ‘Cause There’s Plenty o’ Fresh Baked Biscuits and Gravy.” The giant plate of fried eggs and bacon on display made his empty stomach growl and churn uneasily.

He did a double-take as he rounded a curve and was greeted by a pair of full lips decorated in bright red lipstick. The lips were formed into an alluring smile adorning a woman with jet black hair, and a black top cut low enough to catch the eye of the weariest traveler. He unconsciously slowed, drinking in the sight, and only briefly noted the single word on the sign, just below her cleavage in a flowing script reminiscent of a 70’s disco club

Sensations

Well, that was certainly some sensation, he thought, as he rolled past the billboard, regained his senses, and once again pressed on the accelerator.

A few miles later, there she was again, red lips and all. Sensations was still there, and seemed to be acting as some sort of phonetic push-up bra, or else her top was just a little lower cut in this picture. There was also the addition of bold letters to the right of that come-hither look announcing

ADULT NOVELTY SHOP

“Adult novelty shop?” he thought, as he shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Seems kind of out of place here in the land of biscuits and long forgotten hair styles.”

He crested a hill and there was a third billboard. In this shot she was standing, bent slightly forward, arms pressed inward to stress test the underwire, and those red lips slightly parted. The ad was also expanded to advise the anxious consumer that the Sensations ADULT NOVELTY SHOP was a mere 10 miles ahead on Highway 51.

He admitted to himself that the ads were certainly effective, and whoever dreamed those up was clever, clever indeed. The word titillating popped into his head and he almost giggled like a 12-year-old boy.

The billboards came faster now, every mile bringing a new ad, a new pose, a new look, but every one with those magnificent lips promising ‘Discrete!’, ‘Fun!’, ‘Exhilarating!’. He entered into a tunnel of trees that temporarily blotted out the sun, and emerged to a giant billboard announcing, ‘1 Mile Ahead!’, with a finger held over those sweet red lips, silencing any last fears the intrepid traveler might still have, and promising, ‘No One Will Ever Know!’

Just beyond the billboard was a long, low, single-story building. It was a nondescript structure, with no windows, painted a pale yellow, and completely unremarkable except for the large banner slung from the eaves announcing Sensations, and below that, ADULT NOVELTY STORE.

Doubt, guilt, and excitement all clawed at him, and his foot hovered over the gas and the brake pedals, not certain which would win. The thrill of something new and forbidden ultimately won the day. What harm could it do to just check it out? His foot came down hard on the brake pedal and he swung the car off the road and into the gravel parking lot, lurching to a stop in front of the building, dust swirling in the still air.

He sat for a moment, heart racing, both hands gripping the steering wheel, and stared at the gray metal door in front of him. Moving deliberately, he released his grip, slowly reached down, and switched off the car. With a deep breath, he pushed open the car door and stepped out. The hot sunlight and the oppressive humidity immediately embraced him in a smothering hug. He could feel beads of sweat popping up across his shoulders and trickling down his back. A sudden feeling of revulsion gripped him as he imagined the tiny feet of some insect tripping the light fantastic down his back and around his mid-section.

Reaching up, he stretched his collar, undid another button, and tugged on his shirt. The cheap polyester stuck to his back and the sensation of something crawling over his skin disappeared. He stood looking at the entrance, not sure if he was sweating from the mid-day heat, the nervousness of walking through that door, or some combination of both. The word titillating popped into his head again, along with an image of the red-lipsticked brunette from the billboards. No one will ever know.

Squinting against the sun, he made his way to the shop door. Out of habit, he absently hit the button on the key fob to lock the car, despite the complete absence of another human – or another car – in the near vicinity. With a deep breath, he pushed his way through the front entrance as the car chirped disconsolately behind him.

The gray metal door gave way to a small entryway. Tiny dots of light beckoned through long strands of beads that hung from the frame of the interior doorway, like the entrance to a hippie’s bedroom. Pushing his way through the beads he stepped into a large, open, brightly lit room.

He wasn’t certain what he’d expected, but it definitely wasn’t this. Instead of dim lights and sultry soul music, he was greeted by bright lights, and the only perceptible sound was the steady hum of the flickering fluorescents, buzzing like angry cicadas. It was much cooler inside and the sweat began to dry on his skin, leaving him feeling sticky. There was no discernible air conditioning to explain the cooler temperature. No movement of air at all, just a musty, sour smell, with a hint of mothball and prehistoric ashtray thrown in for good measure.

Stretching before him were endless rows of grey metal shelves, stocked with an assortment of what his grandmother would have called knick-knacks. It was as if the detritus of a thousand two-bit gift shops had been assembled into one location. He walked slowly down the first aisle, between shelves of shot glasses from St. Louis, Lake Mead, the Everglades, and a myriad of other less than exotic locales. There were racks of collectible spoons, plates, belt buckles and coins. Further along there was shelf upon shelf of old metal lunch boxes with The Lone Ranger, Superman, Flipper, and The Flintsones. He reached out and ran his hand over The Super Friends as he passed by.

Stopping at the end of the row he could see clearly across the rest of the shelves and an endless assortment of kerosene lamps, moldy romance novels, old videos, records, and assorted tchotchkes from what appeared to be every tourist trap from Miami Beach to the Seattle Space Needle.

He turned and came face-to-face with an entire row of dancing hula girls, the kind seen on the dashboard of your creepy uncle’s 78 Dodge Dart. They gazed back at him, a silent army arrayed in simulated formation, armed with plastic leis, grass skirts, and painted on smiles. They appeared poised in anticipation of an impending invasion.

“Find what you’re looking for?”

He spun around at the sound of the voice behind him, his heart feeling like it was about to explode from his chest like a fully incubated alien. Before him was a wizened figure that he assumed was a woman, behind a counter that he swore wasn’t there a minute ago. To say that she was wrinkled would be to do a disservice to wrinkles. Her face was a vast contour roadmap of an ancient alien landscape, topped at its northern pole with a snowy summit of wispy white hairs.

“Not quite what you expected, is it?” she queried.

Her voice was like a thousand cigarettes wrapped in broken glass, and he watched in fascination as a skeletal hand raised a burning cigarillo with two inches of hanging ash to what remained of her lips.

“Um,” he managed to croak out, and could think of nothing more to say.

She took a long drag, tilted her head to one side and blew out a long stream of acrid smoke.

“Well, no matter,” she croaked. “They’re always surprised. I told him it’s false advertising, all the lips and fake boobs on that hussy, but he don’t care. Honesty ain’t his strong suit anyway, is it? Anything to suck ‘em in, that’s all he cares about. What’s a little deception among old friends. And we are old friends, aren’t we?” She began to cackle and winked at him with one translucent lid.

He inhaled sharply as the wink revealed the vertical slit of her pupils, but he blinked and her eyes returned to normal. No, to say normal would be too kind, and he half expected her eyes to begin moving independently of one another like a chameleon. All he could do was stare at her wordlessly, not sure what to say, or even if he should speak at all.

“See anything that interests you, honey?” She waved her cigarette hand towards the endless array of shelves, the ashes gamely hanging on. “Those hula cuties are a special order,” she pointed to the shelf behind him, and half an inch of ash broke free and exploded on the counter in front of her. “You want one of them? No? Well, I’ve got something special for you.” She reached her other hand below the counter, coming out holding a medium sized plastic terrarium, filled with a roiling mass of huge cockroaches, crawling over one another, vainly pushing towards the lid that sat askew the top. “Maybe you wanna take a pet home to the missus?”

His stomach turned over and he managed to belch out, “No. Thank you.”

She cackled and clenched the cigarette between yellow, tobacco-stained teeth. Speaking from the side of her mouth, she said, “Your loss, sweet stuff. But you’ll need to give that one back,” and nodded towards him.

He suddenly became aware of a presence, glanced to his left and saw a giant roach crawling along his shoulder towards his bare neck. With a shout he flicked the creature away and jumped backwards, slamming his other shoulder into the shelf with the silent hula army, who all erupted into a spastic dance. One lone soldier on the top shelf danced her way to the edge. She teetered for a split second, before toppling to the floor with a plastic thud. A sacrifice to whatever angry gods had disturbed their slumber.

The ancient counter clerk stared at him out of that lunar landscape of a face, her dark eyes boring into him and he felt exposed, inducing a sudden urge to run. He began to turn back up the aisle and kicked the sacrificial hula dancer at his feet, sending her skittering across the floor.

“Hey, you break it, you buy it,” came a hiss from behind the counter.

He looked up at her, and she spat out, “Five bucks,” and took another long drag. The last of the ashes finally gave up and broke free, most of it landing on her stained t-shirt right above the Sensations logo.

Fumbling in his pocket he pulled out a crumpled wad of cash, found a five, threw it on the counter and began a hasty retreat.

“Don’t forget your girly, sweetheart,” she croaked out, followed by another eerie cackle, that turned into a lung hacking cough. She spat a fleck of yellow phlegm onto the counter, where it landed with a thwack amid bits of cigarette ash which erupted momentarily into the air, a tiny Mt. St. Helens. She dragged her arm across her mouth, and pointed to the hula girl, no longer dancing, that lay on the floor.

Grabbing the plastic figurine, he moved as fast as his quaking legs would carry him, pushed past the hanging beads and burst through the door into the bright sunlight. The cackle rang in his ears, and the smell of rotten cigarettes had taken up residence in his nostrils. The stench was so thick he could taste it, and he spat into the dust in a vain attempt to rid himself of its memory. He reached up to wipe his mouth with his sleeve, but the memory of her dragging her bony arm across that cadaverous face made him stop. He clutched his stomach, willing against its meager contents making an unscheduled appearance, and turned towards the rental car.

Fishing for the keys that had retreated deep into his pockets, he finally found the fob and the locks gave way with a satisfying thunk. He yanked open the door, clambered in, and threw the hula girl into the passenger seat. It took a few trembling moments to fit the key in, but he finally cranked the ignition and threw the car into reverse. The rental careened backwards out of the parking lot until he slammed on the brakes, threw it into drive and hit the gas, with gravel flying behind him like an uneasy rider.

It took a few miles and several minutes for him to regain his senses and start to slow down. Embarrassment began to set in and he started to laugh. Quietly at first, and then growing louder.

“Holy hell,” he said to himself, in between gasps. “What in the actual hell just happened?”

He leaned sideways and grabbed the figurine from the seat. “Can you explain that to me? I mean seriously, what the…” The painted-on smile offered no response.

He peeled the tab from the adhesive at her base and slapped her onto the center of the dash. She began to dance wildly as he poked her. “Hold me closer, tiny dancer,” he laughed, and flicked her in the head.

Exhaling deeply, he fought to slow down his heart. The tiny hula dancer swung wildly on the dash, and he turned his attention back to the road. He pushed down on the accelerator, anxious to put some distance between himself and Sensations.

“The worst thing,” he said, as he poked his new companion again, “is that I can never tell anyone about this. Not that anyone would believe me.”

The car sped along the deserted road, and gradually his heart ceased acting like it wanted to exit his chest. Hula girl stopped dancing and merely vibrated along with the road, reacting occasionally to the random pothole. He took another deep breath, and let it out slowly, trees and fields flashing by outside the window. The feeling of something on his face interrupted the reverie, and he reached up distractedly to brush it away. His hand came away wet.

The tickle on the side of his face wasn’t a bug, but sweat trickling down his cheeks in tiny rivers. Slow realization dawned that the car was boiling hot. He turned the controls to increase the air conditioning and nothing happened. He turned the fan switch off and then on again, still nothing. Resorting to tried and true repair techniques, he hit the controls and then smashed the dash with his fist as hard as he could. Hula girl leapt at this and began her dance with new exuberance, but the A/C remained stubborn; no fan, no air, no sweet cool comfort.

Rolling down the window provided some measure of relief, and he extended his left arm out, letting his fingers walk through the waves of wind that flowed by the car. Leaning to the left, he let the wind hit him full in the face. He looked over at his hula girl, whose dancing had slowed so he nudged her again. She complied with a new round of dancing and gazed back at him with those staring eyes and bared teeth.

“Bared teeth? Where did…?” he started to think, just as a wasp was sucked in through the open window and hit him square in the chest. Dazed, it clung briefly to his shirt before falling inside it. He frantically pulled at the fabric, which just resulted in the wasp falling farther down and becoming lodged between his stomach and the seat belt where it squirmed and buzzed angrily.

He pulled at the seatbelt to loosen it, as the buzzing became increasingly agitated. Adding to his streak of bad decisions for the day, he began to swat at the wasp and was rewarded by searing pain as the angry insect began to sting him repeatedly.

Slamming on the brakes, the car skidded and slid to a stop on the gravel shoulder. Flying out of the car, he pulled his shirt from his waistband, madly swatting at the wasp, which eventually fell to the ground. He tried to stomp it with his foot, missed, and the bug buzzed quickly into the air, flew over the hood, and disappeared.

He lifted his shirt to find his stomach covered with angry red welts. Reaching into the car, he yanked the Coke from the console, peeled back the lid and drained the soda onto the ground. He dumped the remaining ice into his hand and held it against his skin. The ice melted on contact, the cool water spreading over the growing welts and providing some temporary relief.

Slumping back against the car he let his shirt drop back into place and rubbed his face with both hands.

“You’ve got to be effing kidding me,” he said to the dust hanging in the still air. “What the hell is going on?”

Taking a deep breath, he climbed back into the car, slammed the door and cranked the engine. The A/C came on full blast, blowing his hair back. The sudden windstorm kicked up dust and dirt that filled his nostrils, mouth, and clogged his windpipe.

Quickly snapping the fan to low, he went into a coughing fit, choking on his own phlegm. As the fit subsided, he looked over at the hula girl, moving ever so slightly in the breeze, grinning at him from her perch above the A/C register.

Above the A/C? Wasn’t she in the center of the dash? Was she always grinning like that? Where were the teeth that were there just a minute ago? He stared dumbfounded at the figurine until he felt she was staring back and he looked away. When he looked again, the same grin was there, and the black painted on eyes were staring directly at him. Reaching out, he flicked her in the head, which started a new round of gyrations. At least she couldn’t stare at him while she was dancing.

Throwing the car into gear, he pulled back onto the road and accelerated quickly, having had his fill of novelties and wasps.

The miles continued to roll on and still he didn’t see another vehicle or gas station or convenience store. He was desperately thirsty after the coughing fit, the welts on his stomach burned, and he just wanted to chug a gallon of water, take a long cold shower, and climb into his own bed. The empty cup holder mocked him, a tiny bit of moisture at the bottom the only remaining sign that it had once held a nice cool drink.

He passed a sign that told him the highway and the promise of civilization was only a few miles ahead, and he pressed harder on the gas to hasten his exit from this ill-fated side trip.

As he approached a steep hill, he pressed down even harder to gain speed and began to accelerate up the hill. While the car gained speed there was an audible click from the fan and the A/C shut off again.

“What the…” began another round of troubleshooting which soon devolved into his hammering the dash and a renewed round of dance from his companion next to the steering wheel. He pressed the down button on the window, and it too refused to cooperate. He smashed at it angrily, pounding his fist on the buttons. The temperature rose quickly and it became difficult to breathe.

The car was continuing to accelerate and as it crested the hill, he experienced a momentary feeling of weightlessness, rising from his seat as the car strained against the suspension and the tires maintained a tenuous relationship with the road.

Gravity quickly took over, he dropped back into his seat and the car began its descent down the hill, continuing to gain speed.

Immediately in front of him was a large truck, the first vehicle he had seen since exiting the freeway hours earlier. He tried to pull his foot from the accelerator but his leg was frozen. Unable to move, his eyes widened as “Do Not Follow Closely, Makes Frequent Stops” loomed into his vision. The steel bar mounted on the rear of the vehicle was at eye level and he had a clear vision of what would happen when that steel bar met his neck at a high rate of speed.

He struggled to breathe while reaching down with both hands to grab his leg and peel it off the accelerator.

The hula girl was dancing wildly now, right in front of him, with teeth bared and its red eyes staring directly at him. Repulsed, he swatted at it, flinging it from the dash and slamming it into the passenger window with a loud crack.

Instantly, his lungs filled with air. He slammed his foot onto the brake and swerved to the right, barely missing a full-on collision. The rear corner of the truck clipped the side of the car, the steel bar looming inches from his face. The impact sent the sideview mirror spinning off, smashing onto the pavement, and shattering across the road.

He gained control after fish-tailing dangerously close to the ditch, careening back onto the road, and then skidding sideways to a stop on the opposite shoulder.

The engine sputtered, coughed, and died, as dust swirled around the car. The truck motored obliviously away down the hill and he watched it recede into the distance as he sat, chest heaving, his entire body covered in a cold clammy sweat.

The car was still stifling, and the stench of sweat, fear, and something that smelled faintly of rotten eggs filled the vehicle. Pushing open the door he half fell onto the shoulder, the hot stones burning his hands. Staggering to his feet he grabbed onto the car for support and began to pull himself around the car towards the passenger side.

At the rear of the vehicle a wave of nausea seized him and he doubled over, retching into the dusty gravel. He stood, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, turned and spit into the road where it hit the hot blacktop with a hiss.

He moved shakily around the car and threw open the passenger door. The hula girl rolled out, hit the frame of the car and landed in the dirt. It lay motionless, staring blankly at the sky, the bared teeth and red eyes gone. Maybe he’d imagined it. Maybe he’d imagined it all.

Maybe not.

He poked at it with his foot, then kicked it to the back of the car and wedged it under the front of the rear tire. Slamming the door shut, he walked to the driver’s side with renewed strength, and fell into the front seat. The engine sprung to life as he turned the key and a cold blast of air hit his face when the air conditioning kicked on.

Putting the car in gear, he sat still while the cool air began to dry the sweat on his face. He gently eased his foot off the brake and the car crept forward. Listening intently, he heard a satisfying crunch come from the back of the car.

Pointing the car down the hill he drove slowly to the blinking red light at the bottom and came to a stop. He hesitated again, looking both ways, and then sat staring in the rearview mirror, just to make certain nothing was following him.

He closed his eyes, hands clenched on the steering wheel, foot crammed onto the brake. How long he sat like that he was unsure, but eventually his heart stopped thundering in his chest. It took effort to peel his hands off the steering wheel, and his knee was sore from the pressure of holding the car in check. He held up his hands and watched them shake.

Taking a deep breath, he slowly swung the car to the left, and pointed it towards the freeway, a setting sun, and home. When the car hit the cattle guard at the bottom of the on ramp, a large cockroach fell from under the driver’s seat and landed on its back. Its legs waved in the air as it rocked back and forth, until it managed to flip itself over. It scurried up onto the gas pedal, over the toe of his shoe, across the laces, and nestled itself into the cuff of his pant leg.

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Copyright 2026 Paul A. Tennant

In 2016, our family drove cross-country from New Mexico to Connecticut. We took a southerly route, through Texas, Oklahoma, Arkansas, and Tennessee, before turning northward through Virginia, eventually catching I-95 north. One thing that I found extremely odd, and somewhat disturbing, was the preponderance of outdoor advertising for “adult superstores.” This seemed particularly out of place in an area of the country that had always been described to me as the Bible belt. Two years later, I did the same trip in reverse, only going west across I-70 before turning south in Missouri. Once I hit the south, the advertisements began again. All of this led me to think, “Who is driving down the road and thinks, ‘hey, I think I’ll stop at an adult store?’” My search for the answer to that question led to the story above. I hope you enjoy it. This is the first short fiction published on ‘Story Road’ and I welcome your (brutally) honest feedback.

If you’ve gotten this far… thanks for reading. Please share your thoughts in the comments. I’m working on my craft and welcome your feedback, what did or didn’t work for you, what you liked or hated. Don’t worry, I can take it. If you did like it, please feel free to share with someone who enjoys a good story. And if you’re not already subscribed, please consider becoming a free subscriber and see what comes next. More stories are coming!