Five

Five and Dime

In the five and dime, it's ten after five.
As I walk through, I pause and stare at the camel toe on this gorgeous blonde on the cover of Maxim.
They'll always make those like they used to.
Christ, I've spent my last dollar on a coke and need to use the cash machine for beer and cigarettes.
I peruse the meds for some sort of legal downer; I pick up some Nyquil and proceed to the cash machine. There's a man dressed in hunting clothes using it.
He keeps punching buttons and then sending his arms out in a "what the hell" fashion. He does this twice and I realize he came to the machine hoping he'd have a hundered, then punching in lower denominations till something works.
Nothing works and he leaves the ATM looking at me and mumbling "bastards."
I pop my card in and order more money. I feel loaded with 200 in my pocket and reassure myself that I'm not pathetic like "what the hell" guy.
Not that I haven't pulled the same act sans the "what the hell" gestures.
It's too early to get a sixer, so I pull an eighteen pack out, grab some Fritoes and head to the checkout.
I'm worried about the guy behind the counter. He's snapping off orders into his cell phone and I laugh inside my head as I murmur "terrorist" to myself.
My head's got a 24-inch circumfrence according to a drunk who meassured it the other night. I'd say 19 inches are devoted to demon thoughts like the terrorist one. I never hurt no one, but damn if I don't think about it.
Like this lady who cuts in front -

(cont.)