I've got the worst goddamn hangover in the history of mankind, so on my way in to work I decide to stop off at a liquor store for a little pick-me-up. To tell the truth, though, the street I'm driving down right now isn't really on my way to work. It's a mile or so off the freeway, in the shadier part of town. I'm slumming it. Nobody down here bats an eye at a man buying a bottle this early in the morning.
I slow up and hang a left into the lot of this dinky store with a huge home-made sign that says MUFA'S ANYTIME SPIRITS. MUFA1S is painted red, ANYTIME green and SPIRITS black. Even with the sign being so damn big the last half of SPIRITS is scrunched together where somebody measured wrong-or not at all-and ran Out of room.
As I'm pulling into a spot I see these four black guys sitting on the walkway right in front of the stor~backs against the wall, legs stretched out, feet up on the bumper of a big yellow Lincoln. They've each got a tall can of beer in a brown paper bag. They look like regulars.
I check my watch. 8:40. Not enough time to go driving around looking for a store that doesn't have a bunch of guys hanging out front-if you could even find a store like that down here. I kill the engine. As I'm climbing out the four black guys all turn and look at me. I look away and stall heading towards them, making myself stare at the Lincoln. It's a mint condition late 70's land yacht. Through the driver's window I see perfect yellow leather seats, the top of a fuzzy yellow steering-wheel cover and a bunch of yellow Pine-Tree air fresheners hanging from the rear-view mirror.
When I reach the black guys I stop and stare down at their legs blocking my way. None of them moves an inch. They aren't even looking at me. I give them a second. Nothing. Okay. I step over the first guy's legs slow and easy, keeping my eyes on his knees. Without breaking stride I step over the second guy's legs. Then the third guy. As I'm stepping over the last guy he brings his leg up between my legs, stopping me like stick poked through bicycle spokes.
I freeze. Then I start losing my balance. I stick my arms out.
"Eh mistah."
I look down at him. He's staring up at me with bloodshot eyes. He could be anywhere between 30 and 50.
"Y'all right dare, mistah?"
I wobble to the left and start flapping my arms to keep from falling on top of him. He doesn't budge.
"You lookin kinda sick."
I wobble back to the right and stare at the open doorway up ahead.
"Oh jess thusty. What you doin comin all way down hea you so thusty? Ain't they no stores up by you?"
I steady myself and look down at him. What the hell am I supposed to say? Fuck him. I keep quiet.
He laughs like a dog bark without his face changing any.
"Ainno stores up dare, huh? Well howsabout givin up a lidda toll seem you down here usin ours."
"Let me see on the way out."
"You do that."
He takes a long drink of beer, slurping loud and watching me. Then he looks away and brings his foot back down on the bumper of the Lincoln. I put my arms down, step over him and head for the caged-in glass door propped open on a garbage drum. As I go in I hear laughing behind me.
"I say hit 'em hard then talk peace with whoever's left standing!"
A radio up at the counter's got on one of the news-talk stations. I recognize the voice. I
listen to this guy sometimes on my way to work.
The place is the usual dive store. Up front there's junk food and clear-wrapped porn mags on
metal racks. At the back there's a built-in cooler for beer and soda and whatever. The middle's filled with a couple aisles of low shelves half-stocked with food that won't spoil and dusty odds-and-ends.
I grab a pack of Wrigley's off the candy rack-my hand's shaking like a goddamn leaf-and head for the counter.
A middle-aged black guy's sitting on a stool by the register. He's got a huge head and white hair that looks like a snow cone with the juice sucked out of it. His big round belly's sitting on his lap, stretching out the pattern on his red, green and black golf shirt.
I lean over the counter and look down the rows of bottles on shelves built out from the wall.
It's all pints and half pints -- no fifths of anything. I spot the white Jim Beam label between the
Old Crow and Evan Williams. I try telling the guy what I want but the words came out garbled.
My tongue feels like a fi~ton. I swallow and try it again.
"Pint of Jim Beam."
The guy nods and heaves himself up off his stool. He's not all that tall-S-il, maybe 6 foot-but if he weighs under 250 you'd better check the scale. He holds his lower back and walks stiff-legged down along the counter. When he gets to the Jim Beam he sticks out an arm that looks like a short black leg, grabs a pint off the shelf and comes back like h~s wading upstream through fast water.
"We can 't let these people intimidate us. They don 't know what it means to live in civilized society. The only language they understand is force. . ."
I fall into a stare listening to the radio then flinch hard at a sudden ripping sound. The guy's looking right at me. I look down at the filled-out little paper bag in his hand and my face goes hot. "A real mess they got over there," I say just to be saying something. I don't even know what place they're talking about.
"Whadda hell I care?"
The guy holds up his hand with his fingers spread out.
"Five times I been robbed this year! Who gives a shit, buncha backass muthaftickas shootin each other off someplace nobody never hearda. They ain't robbin ma store!"
He reaches back and slaps the radio off, shaking his head.
"Shit piss me off"
He bags my pint then hits some keys on the register. The cash drawer slides out. He looks at me.
"Be five eighty-eight."
I put the pack of gum on the counter and pull my wallet out.
"You wantin that gum?"
"Yeah." I open my wallet and look inside. "Hold on."
Ail I've got is a crumpled-up five. What the hell? I got eighty bucks out of the ATM last night. On my way to the bar I stopped for gas and I know I had at least sixty bucks on me after that. What the flick happened?
I pull the five out and set it next to the pint. The guy doesn't touch it. I put my wallet on the counter and dig both hands in my pockets. I pull out my keys, a pack of matches, a napkin with a name and phone number on it (Rachel?) and some change. I drop the other stuff on the counter and spread the coins out in my hand. Two quarters, a dime and three pennies.
"Shit."
"How much you got?"
"Sixty-three."
"That'll do."
"I've got some more change out in the car."
"Don't sweat it."
He holds his palm out like a banquet tray. I go to give him the money and some movement catches the corner of my eye. I turn and look. It's a surveillance monitor showing a black-and-white view of the store. I see myself at the bottom of the screen with my hand stuck haitway out and my face turned away.
"Plan on givin up them coins?"
"Oh. Sorry."
I dump the change in his hand.
"Sawright." He starts sorting the coins into the cash drawer. '"One thing you can count on-folks get a chance at checkin theyself out on TV they gone do it."
"Yeah."
I grab my wallet off the counter and reach for my pint. The guy covers the five with his
fingers and starts sliding it back towards him. He's got on a big gold-cluster pinkie ring with a
smooth W cut in it. No, wait, it's not a W; it's an M I'm looking at upside-down. Yeah, so what
I turn to leave and the four black guys out there pop into my head. I don't have anything to give them. Like they'll believe that. I picture four hard faces staring up at me and fours pairs of legs blocking my way. Then bang bang bang I see four pairs of dirty sneakers on the shiny
bumper of the Lincoln, the spotless yellow interior and the smooth gold M on the counter guy's pinkie ring. I turn back around. He's easing his big body on the stool.
"Are you Mufa?"
He looks up at me.
"Ain't Muff-a, it's Moo-fa. Won't find nobody at Mufa's sep Mufa. Disainno seven-eleven .
I nod at the parking lot. "That your Lincoln out there?"
"Ain't for sale."
"I don't want to buy it."
He starts chewing his thumbnail.
"What then?"
"Just thought I'd tell you you got some guys out there with their feet up on it." He jumps off the stool.
"WHAT! AGAIN?"
He throws open the hinged plank in the counter then turns sideways, gets up on his toes and shuffle-steps out fast with his gut sliding over the counter top. I'm not in his way but I still move. He marches past the porn mags and junk food, carrying his fists like bowling bags. When he steps out the door his big shape goes dark against the sunny parking lot. He turns right then disappears. I hold my bottle in both hands and stare out at the pair of battered posts that keep the locals from making the place a drive-thru.
"I SEEN WHAT YOU DOIN! DON'T TRY TA BE SNEAKINEM OFF!
I need a drink bad. I look down at the little white cap in the bag. Maybe just a quick one. I reach in, twist the cap off and lift the bottle.
"I TOLL YALL! HOW MANY TIMES I GOTTA SAY IT? KEEP YOUR GOD DAA~V DIRTY FEET OFFAMA LINCOLN!"
I close my eyes and choke the stuff down. It burns. I swallow spit to keep it from coming back up on me. My spit tastes like milk left out in the car on a hot day. I picture a gallon of warm sour milk on a sticky vinyl seat and my stomach jumps. I swallow more spit. When I open my eyes everything's watery. I blink a couple times and scrape my teeth over my tongue. Yuck. I need to spit. I look around for a trash can or something and spot the pack of Wrigley's I left sitting on the counter.
I take a quick peek at the doorway. It's empty. I go up and reach for the gum. Some movement catches the corner of my eye. I turn and look. There I am in black-and-white with my hand stuck out and my face turned away. I watch my hand grab the gum and stick it in my coat pocket.
"YEAH, SO WHAT IF HE TOLL ME? AIN'T NOTHING TO DO WIDIT! AIN'T THE WHITE MAN'S CAR Y'ALL GOT YO FEET UP ON!"
Oh shit. I drift over to the door. Now what?
"DON'T GO WALKIN OFF GIVIN ME NO BULLSHIT MUMBLE TALK! YOU GOT
SUMPNA SAY, SAY IT OUT!"
A faraway voice yells, "GO BACK TO YO WHJTE MAN!"
Mufa backsteps into view, shaking his fist in the direction of my car.
"COME ON BACK ANSAYDAT! ALL FOURA YUZ! AH STICK MY FOOT UP ALL Y'ALL'S ASS!"
No answer. Just cars zooming by in the street.
He brings his fist down and stands there staring after them. Then he turns and comes back inside. I move out of his way. He stops and looks at me, shaking his head.
"Howsa man sposa get by wid all dis? Goddamn bums hangin roun like flies. Punks shootin out ma windows eryutha week. Muthaft~ckas theivin off me right and leff Where the police at, huh? I pay my tax. For what? For nuthin! Ery time I turn my back got somebody flickin with ma shit!" He jerks his head at the counter. "Why I bought that TV hunka junk. 'A good invessment,' says the dude. Ain't good for nuthin sep playin the tape back, see what all got stole off me."
He keeps staring right at me, shaking his head slow. His eyes slip out of focus. Then he blinks.
"Wawazat?"
"I didn't say anything."
His nose twitches. He looks down at the open bottle in my hand.
"Couldn't wait, huh?" I shrug.
"Can't have no drinkin in the store."
"Sure." I screw the cap back on the bottle. "I oughta know better."
He nods then goes over to the candy rack, grabs a pack of Wrigley's and comes back holding it out at me.
"Gone be out drivin."
He gives me the gum.
"Thanks."
I drop it in my pocket with the other pack.
He goes to the counter and squeezes himself back through the opening then brings the plank down behind him. When he sits the stool cushion makes a sound like somebody getting punched in the gut. He gives the store a sour-faced once-over then turns and shakes his head at the surveillance monitor.
I go outside with my bottle. The sunlight hurts. I shield my eyes and look around. No sign of the four black guys.
As I'm walking past the Lincoln I notice my driver's window rolled down part way. Shit! I've got a habit of leaving my keys in the car when I'm stopping someplace in a hurry. I dig my hand in my pants pocket. Nothing. I try my coat pocket. Nothing. I switch hands with the bottle and check the pockets on the other side. Nothing and nothing.
"Fuck!
I run to the car. I have no trouble picturing the black guys snatching my keys. I pull the door open, climb in and look down through the steering wheel at the empty ignition switch.
"FUCKING NIGGERS !"
Jesus! What am I doing?
I'm scared to look outside. What if somebody heard? They might be running up to get me. I look around fast. Nobody's out there. Whew. I drop back in the seat, screw the cap off the bottle and take a big drink, I swallow it slow, staring out at the grafiffi all over the wall of the store
I take a bigger dnnk, swallow an gag a little.
I shut my eyes and drink all I can hold. Some runs down my chin. When I open my eyes the store's rocking like a boat out in a storm.
Uh-oh .
I opened the door and lean my head out. Come on, let's see that english muffin I ate back home.
I try spitting to get things started but the spit catches on my chin.
"HEY"
I look up. Two Mufas are coming at me. They're walking fast with four big fists swinging left-right-left-right . . .
Okay, so here's where you get your ass kicked. They ran the tape back and saw you swipe the gum. Or they heard you yelling Or both. Or neither. Who gives a shit? I just want to puke up a buckettul.
I put my head down and watch the spit dangle.
"Keys ain't on the groun. They right hea."
I look up. The two Mufas are standing in front of me with matching sets of my keys hanging from their fingers.
"You awright?"
"I.. . doan thinsho."
"Bess lay off that stuff"
"Hell of a breakfast, ainit?"
"Helluva somethin.
They give me the keys and just before the puke comes gushing out I give them a big drunk smile