Supermarket(7)

Frank nudged my elbow.

“I’m gonna fuck that girl,” he said. “And her friend.”

He pulled a banana out of his apron and peeled it.

Standing there confused and unanswered, I opened my mouth to ask again, but was cut off before the first syllable.

“Your name tag, dude,” he said.

“Oh, yeah . . . duh!” I said. “So how long have you worked here?”

“Long enough to have fucked every chick that’s clocked in this motherfucker!” he said, hoisting himself onto the countertop. He peeled a banana, then spit into the sink.

“What the fuck?” I said, a little stunned.

“Well, not every chick. They come and go so often it’s actually pretty hard to keep up,” he continued, his mouth full of banana. “You know . . . ,” he said, swallowing. “Most of these fucking girls are Daddy’s little princesses, off to college to become a grown-up.”

He took another bite.

“And then,” he continued, mouth so full I could barely make out what he was saying. “Mmph, theth girls gettah jawhb here.” He chewed fiercely, swallowed, and continued, his words clearing up perfectly. “And they think, Oh look at me, I’m a working girl,” he explained, mimicking with his hands. “Until they see that minimum wage check and realize Daddy’s credit card is king.”

The room was awkwardly quiet. Light music from the store intercom bled in. It sounded like classic elevator music. Soothing and unsettling at the same time.

“So bananas are your thing, huh?” I said.

“Bananas are your thing?” he repeated with a disrespected look on his face. “What the fuck does that mean?” he said. “What are you, a fucking racist? Huh? You saying bananas are my thing because I’m black?”

Frank was clearly white.

“Huh?” he demanded. “You fucking with me, Flynn?”

The faint sound of a Chuck Mangione flugelhorn solo filled the space between us.

“Hahahaha, I’m just messing with you, man!” he said, lifting his arms in the air.

I exhaled, feeling my chest deflate like a balloon at a birthday party. How long had I been holding my breath in suspense?

“I wouldn’t say bananas are my thing, but—” he said, taking one final bite and raising the peel in the air like a basketball. “Kobe,” he said, taking his shot for the wastebasket. Air ball. “Aaahhh . . . Shaq.” He looked at me. “Not my thing, but they are a great source of nutrition for the brain, and the brain is super important, man,” he said, motioning at me to come with him. He got up to exit the room. I hesitantly joined him, walking to the back loading dock by the dumpsters.

Standing by the dumpster was a guy I hadn’t met. There were so many people who worked here. Too many for the size of the store. He looked to be in his late twenties, white, and full of piercings. He had gauges, a nose ring, a bad Celtic tattoo peeking out of his sleeve, a leather wristband, a big-ass watch, and spiked green hair. Yikes. Not a good look. He stood, arms crossed, leaning against the top rail of a dumpster, smoking a cigarette.

“What’s up, I’m Flynn,” I said.

“Kurtis,” he said as he put out a fist.

Pausing, I reluctantly met his fist with mine.

“I work in the deli,” he said. Not exactly the most sanitary looking of fellows.

“Nice watch, where’d you get it?” I asked him, trying to make small talk.

“Can I get a smoke?” blurted Frank, interrupting.

“Get your own.”

Kurtis put his pack of smokes in his tan button-down shirt pocket. A silver Zippo followed. The sunlight flashed across the surface of the lighter, revealing the words Vanilla Sky engraved on the top.

He walked past me, flicking his cigarette. On his way by, he aggressively bumped into my shoulder, forcing me to drop the picture I’d been clutching in my pocket. It fell to the ground, right next to Kurtis’s still-burning cigarette.

“Fuck that guy,” Frank said as he shamelessly picked up the butt to smoke. “Whoa, who’s the babe?” he asked, grabbing the picture of me and my ex laughing in the park, madly in love on a summer day.

“Oh, that’s just this girl,” I said, pulling the red ball out of my pocket. I began to nervously bounce it.

“Just this girl? This don’t look like just this girl to me. This looks like a girl you put a baby in and lock down immediately!” He chuckled. “Trap her!”

“Yeah, well, that ship has unfortunately sailed, man. Let’s just change the subject.” I pulled out my pack of toothpicks and threw one in my mouth. Frank raised his eyebrows, as if to say ookkaaayyyy, but let it go.

“So, as I was saying, the brain is very important!” Frank said, motioning with the two fingers gripping the cigarette. He pointed the tips of his index and middle fingers to his temple with his thumb cocked like a pistol.

“And the lungs aren’t?” I asked, motioning to the cancer stick he was holding.

“That’s different, man. This is addiction . . . you wouldn’t know,” he said, pointing to me.

“Yes, I would,” I said. “I started smoking when I was fourteen. Finally quit six months ago.”

Frank burst into laughter. “Six months? Hahaha. Six months? You high and mighty motherfucker. Talk to me in a year, minimum, bro,” he said, inhaling deeply on what was left of the hand-me-down device of death. “Six months,” he said, chuckling.