Three cents. The little prick's going to make me break my five for three lousy cents. I'll break three of his fingers, call his mother, ask for directions or say it's a wrong number, all the while little pumpkin won't know what I know about her life that's going to break her shrewd heart. If he's this stingy now, what a monster he'll be at age something. The little monster. He's little now but he'll be a monster later, get it? And don't ask me why I'd ask for directions over the cord. To a stranger, no less, you'll say. Fuck you, reader! She ain't no stranger—I just broke her son's arms. I'm going to be a big part of her thoughts now. I'll break her back; hurt her sales, she'll have to hire outside of the family. Oh, she's got insurance for him, you can bet—the amount of pastrami they sell? Everyone knows this place.
It's $5.43. Not bad. That's why I come here. When they raised their prices, I gave them some lip, not too much, just some. My mistake was putting the two fives down. I said—I mean, I was cool—I said, Hold on, I got the change in my pocket. No fiddlin' no nothin' I took out the 40 cents from my pocket here it is kid and gave it to him, kicked him in the butt and sent him on his way.
You prolly want to give me the 5 back, I said, as he stared down counting the change. I'll have it for you some other... The two fives were still laying there like a little baggie on your way to AA. I told him the analogy—he barely spoke English. I said stay in school kid, he said much good it did you. I said I thought you didn't speak English, he said where's my three cents? Poor sap's mother has him working at 3:30PM.
He stared down at the change; he didn't want to look up in that moment. It's a quick moment when you realize the person in front of you don't want to look up and he's too befuddled to know that you know. Are you racked with tension, kid? Stupid kid. He didn't answer. I knew he was uneasy, and this was going to be unpleasant. So, what do you want to do? He asked. Even I didn't know where he was staring. His nervousness was unnerving and it was killing my mood. I wanted to off his entire family, his classmates, the girl he wanted to call on a landline today but has to work and the goddamn teacher for giving him all that homework. Let me see it, I told him.
He came around the counter we pulled up two chairs and spread the busy work out on a small table and I said, What the fuck is this shit, kid? That's what I'm saying, he said. He sat there leaning on one arm and I kind of knew, that if I pushed him he'd fall. When I saw the dingy piece of wet lettuce on today's algebra, I knew that my elbows were probably smeared with mustard you fuckin kid you forgot to wipe down the table first—right to the back of the head. Up! I said.
He went back around and I said Just take the ten, then! And the 40 cents? I knew what he meant. "Whatever," I quickly replied. There's a v right there, man. He heard my tone. He knew what I meant. He gave me $4.97 back. The word itself under quotations. Women have heard my tone, too. It sounds like his father's tone. That's why I'm divorced 5 times and living like a hobo writing soap operas and crime fighter stories while turning over in a van down by the river. The van is the only good part of my life. Later I sunk the van and am living with memories of the van, along with the van when it was sunk. Stay in school kid, I said. You can't unlearn what you have learned. The kid was such a bozo. I wanted to steal a freakin' avocado in its crate by the bathroom. These Asians, they stuff all their new produce by the entrance to the bathroom. I knew I'd be no better than the bozo kid if I were to steal it; right there I could stuff it in my pocket. I knew they had to deal with customers all the time, who don't want their good mood to be ruined and don't care there's a family back here. So I went back to the counter and bought a can of diet coke. I asked if there was tax on top of the dollar and he said No. I had changed my tone but I still don't like him...that...that bozo kid, man! I bought my coke and sat down knowing I was about to steal an avocado and there was a v in it.
When he said my sandwich was ready, he asked if I wanted some ranch with it. His mom never asks me if I want ranch, the bitch charges me for it. I said I didn't need it and went over to the condiment section, which was by the bathroom and the crates, and stared longingly at the avocados. I squirted some brown mustard onto my pastrami, damn near empty, I said, and looked up at him, real dirty. The sandwich was delicious. I asked him if they don't have that one Nora Jones song on their jukebox, Don't Know Why. He said this is a donut shop, we don't have a jukebox. I gave him another dirty look.
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