By Nicholas Viglietti
The scorch was on, heatwave style, in Sac-Town, beneath the blaze of torrid sunbeams, and I oozed sweat like the sludge out of a treatment plant. I wheeled up shirtless in my truck; the AC unit malfunctioned, and the open windows weren’t cutting it.
I had just finished a workout — doctor recommended and wife approved, and, if you learn anything in marriage; stay healthy and bone-able, it's crucial for longevity and love. I needed the basics: beer, energy drinks, boner pills, ice and a point in this nasty universe.
Everything, aside from the latter, could be purchased at the liquor store, off of S street. Oh yeah, snag the procurable items and find refreshment at the frigid flow of the river — it wasn’t much, but it went the distance needed — to liberate the soul from the bleak intervals of the living-grind.
The cashier-bro-migo was chill; he might’ve had a touch of the ‘tism, but he was a friendly jokester, and that goes a long way in the hot doldrums of summer. I hauled my load like a pack mule; no bags, or second trips, for my brutish-bro-migo-frame of bulk. I felt workday weary, tossed the materials in the truck bed, and got down to the hard business of cooler organisation.
I rapidly arranged the puzzle of limited cooler space like a mad scientist, finely tuned the creation of Frankenstein. It looked pretty enough to present on Instagram, and I was about to top the thing off with ice, when my surgical focus was aggressively interrupted — eerily hoarse tones uttered behind me.
I turned and it, or rather she; a rough, monster of a hunch-back woman fought with her body to move. She was out of breath, and demanded, “you got enough money to get me a Slurpee!?!?”
She seemed to be in a vicious rush, and she had no time for pleasantries. I said, “yeah, I got some money — prolly not enough for a Slurpee, but you can have it.”
Her grimace stretched uglier at my response, but she opened her grubby claw. I flayed a smile and gave her my entire fistful of meager change — about a buck 30 or 42 — she almost tripped as she opened her two claws like a bowl.
She growled lowly, displeased by the short amount of change to purchase a Slurpee. I had warned her, already, and on top of that, I had a cooler to ice down, and those cubes wouldn’t last long, under the fury of that valley sun.
I resumed the culmination of my ice-box tasks, when I heard the odd clang of trickled coins, smack off the pavement. I swung around fast with a bad sense that she had slipped, pitched forward, and took a hideous spill, which required assistance.
Nope, not the case. She didn’t much appreciate my kindness, and hurled — well, close to as hard as a hurl as she could muster — the change on the ground, and haggardly slinked off and bitched about my poverty, “buying beer & boner pills & no money for Slurpees! Losers! Just losers, everywhere these days!”
I had to laugh at her arrogance — anger is pointless, when people are senseless — hung on the confused notion that it’s easier to throw away change, than to stick to the incremental patience of change, at least, for Slurpees, anyway. I knelt down, not above pocket change, and the woman badgered a terrified young lady for Slurpee money. Things weren’t going my way, but I had enough cents to change.
About the Author
Nicholas Viglietti
Nicholas Viglietti is a writer from Sacramento, CA.
He rebuilt houses on the gulf coast, after Katrina, for two years.
He's lived like a bear, out on a trail crew in the rocky mountains.
He rode a bicycle from Sac-Town to S.D.
He's partying on his seventh life, and he tries to sling beautiful sentences.