It’s 9:00 PM and I’m walking into the Shop-Rite, taking great care to dance over all the veiny cracks in the concrete parking lot, chatting away on my cellphone, oblivious to other passers-by gawking at me. Cellular phones aren’t commonplace in small Louisiana towns and the majority of the ignorant populace looks at this act as an arrogant, albeit hollow, display of wealth, though I’m dressed in an old 80’s T-shirt, wrinkled, Gap plaid shorts and dirty, Nike Airs. I am in what my doctor would call, a Manic Phase and I’ve come to buy Powerade Mountain Blast thirst quencher to re-hydrate myself after my last marijuana binge the night before. Since I hate shopping and am too insecure to go it alone, I decide to call my best friend to keep me company.
“You’ve got the same problem I do,” I say while bending over reading the label on a 20-quart bottle. I wonder how many quarts comprises the larger bottles, but estimate 32 so I’m considering selecting two of the 20 quart size. “You’re too nice. Women don’t like nice guys, they like men with strong personalities, charismatic men,” I chide sarcastically.
Glenn’s complaining to me, “I’m sick of looking like the older brother…”
I don’t envy you,” I interrupt. I begin to read the ingredients labels to compare Powerade with Gatorade. “What the hell is Ester of Wood Rosin?”
“What? Are you even listening?” He asks, already knowing the answer.
“Are you saying I can’t talk and compare labels at the same time?” I inquire, as I grab two 20 quart bottles of Powerade and head to the register. The inside of the Shop-Rite reeks of fried grease, as by day it doubles as a deli-type eatery for hungry, sweaty, construction worker types. It’s at this point I realize I’ll exit this establishment smelling like a giant, deep-fried grease-ball.
“Where are you? Are you calling me from the store?” Glenn laughs incredulously, then stops suddenly, remembering who he’s talking to.
I approach the register operator with my phone in the left crook of my neck, my head bent towards the same direction and two bottles of Powerade Mountain Blast balanced in my hands. I set the bottles on the register and quickly glance around. The convenience store is practically empty save for two homeboys reading magazines near the door. Outside, a metallic-green Chevy Corsica containing a white male and female sits in the parking lot, waiting, presumably, for the homies inside the store. I study the clerk in front of me and wonder how she can handle working in this stench.
“That’ll be it?” she asks, smiling, showing the long-term effects on tooth enamel associated with chronic cigarette smoking.
“Yes,” I reply and Glenn just happened to finish a question simultaneously, which prompts him to respond with:
“You really think I should let her set me up?” he asks unbelievingly.
“One dollar and ninety cents,” smoky-teeth replies.
I fish in my wallet for two one-dollar bills. I keep all my bills in descending order from front to back, faces uni-directional, so even in the event of a blackout I can promptly retrieve money from my wallet with no problem.
“What? Are you listening to me?” Glenn’s voice is raised and he’s giving my dissenting eardrum a good “what-for.”
God, I think to myself as I stare listlessly at the poor, ignorant, backward clerk. Whoever conceived the phrase “Ignorance Is Bliss” must have been sovereign of all dunces. I can’t help but feel sorry for her and although she obviously enjoys her job and seems content with her life, I know that for her ignorance is bliss, because had she ever been out of her southern microcosm she would realize that maybe she’s capable of doing a lot more with her life, earning a lot more for her family and kids (probably a lot of kids).
I hand her the money and in turn she gives me a nickel and five pennies change. Five pennies? I loathe pennies. I instinctively turn towards her to complain, to lecture her as to why her register would be better off with the pennies as opposed to my pocket/ashtray/piggy-bank, but the sound of my best friend yelling furiously in my left ear stops me, bringing me back to reality; the harsh reality of a southern grease-pit manned by ignorant southerners, in which two negroes (whom I’m sure have enough racist anger surging throughout the course of their bodies to pulverize me into a mangled mass of bone and cloth—maybe even kill me—without any remorse, then steal my phone, shoes and truck). I quickly thank the clerk and exit the pit. Great. I smell like the afore-mentioned deep-fried grease-ball. I continue my conversation with Glenn as I enter my 1984 Toyota 4×2, the white couple in the Corsica staring at me the whole while.
To Be Continued…
