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.
Our weekly podcast features the stories from recently published issues, often narrated by the authors themselves.
My time at Nambucca Valley Community Radio began back in 2016 after moving into the area from Sydney.
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