The man still had the lube in his hands when Jasmine and I left.
The Walgreens on Magazine Street was popping with activity that Friday evening.
The crowd consisted mostly of those whiny college kids, each one searching for
something. Some searched for the courage to use their cheap fake IDs, others
(drunk already) searched for puffy Cheetos. Jasmine and I didn't fall into
either category. She wanted cigarettes and I'd agreed to come with, rather than
stand alone on the street corner.
A tall, hairy, irate man gesticulated violently at the woman
behind the counter. Spittle shot from his throat as he roared, gripping a
cardboard box with one hand and using the other to punctuate his angry,
fragmented speech. Jasmine and I stood three people behind him in line. We
craned our necks to listen.
The woman behind the counter explained to the man that she was
not in charge of inventory and then asked if she could ring up his cardboard
box. The man’s paws gnawed at the cardboard encasing two matching bottles of
Sexy Jelly: one pink, one blue, adorable.
With a slight stammer, the man explained to the woman behind the
counter that tubes of Sexy Jelly were usually sold separately. There was to be a set of his and hers and separate tubes of just his and just hers.
The man gasped for a breath and let the air settle in his chest, holding it
there to keep tears from falling.
The woman behind the counter sighed and recollected herself
almost mournfully. Her eyebrows moved with a pitiful lift as she said she
couldn’t help him with that.
The man’s tired, red hands relaxed for a beat but didn’t let go.
He looked through the ground under his feet and said that no one could.
As Jasmine bartered for her cigarettes, I kept my eyes fastened
on the lube man. He had stepped out of the checkout line, but hadn’t left the
store. He stood a few paces away from the automatic door, his transfixed eyes
staring forward, his hands still gripping the cardboard box.
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| The little pianist, Michael Maier |
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