On Your Mark, Get Set or One, Two, Three
It's midnight on July fourth. The only reason I'm parking my car at the all-night CVS across town is because my girlfriend keeps complaining about her back, a bruise and scrape caused by a drunken slip on the pool deck at a party earlier.
She laughed it off then. She cursed me out when I left our apartment.
She wants Advil. Name brand. Not generic. I am buying the generic. She will not bitch.
I won't let her see the bottle. I'll cup two pills in one hand, glass of water in the other, give her both, she'll slurp 'em down, go to sleep none the wiser, and that'll be that.
Unless she looks close at the pills. Then I'm fucked.
*
There's a lumpy white woman talking into her flip phone, face worn as a crusty towel.
“Where are you?... Me? The same place I was fifteen minutes ago. Standing out front of CVS... Come on, I got cold food... Because you said you'd be right back when you dropped me off. You're the one that asked for the damn Rocky Road, anyway, and you know it's twice as expensive here... God. Just hurry up.”
Some kind of piece of shit on the other end of the line.
Her mini-cart overflows with food, powdered donuts and chocolate peanuts and Ding Dongs, and of course the ice cream. No loaf of whole grain bread or a granola bar. Her legs look out of juice, stiff. I wonder how many times she's switched her weight from the right leg to the left and back again. Or why she doesn't just lean against the wall.
*
For a place with pharmacy on the sign, CVS sure does like to keep all the medicine tucked in the back.
I see a face. Girl whose name I don't know and probably didn't know back in the day either. She has the look on her face that I have on mine: How do I know this person? Every ghost I see around town is from high school. At least that's what I tell myself.
If she's a high school ghost, she looks the same, I think, only sluttier. Then again, it's the fourth, so I shouldn't hold excessive titty-display against her. The six pack of Smirnoff Ice in her hand, well, I can't overlook that level of piss-poor taste. Bad call, whatever your name is from wherever my mind remembers you.
There it is, just like I told her. Advil: $7.49. CVS Ibuprofen: $4.49. That's three fucking dollars, almost a gallon of gas. I keep telling her. I keep trying. It's all I can do.
*
A tall, skinny mixed girl bounces by the counter. Maybe ten years old, surely no more than twelve. She's wearing light-up shoes, the kind I begged my parents for but never got. Short pink shorts. Hair in two tails, like her favorite Brady girl is Cindy. She's chunking out words to the cashier through a smile, but I don't catch exactly what it is. Either “on your mark, get set, go!” or “one, two, three, go!” Let's say it's “one, two, three, go!” I don't like the other one so much. But it could've been that one. Who knows.
Anyway, she keeps panting. “Come on, just say it! Just say it.”
The cashier, a slim black guy with a sharp-ass goatee, is steady shaking his head.
I point at her with a finger-gun. “One, two, three, go!”
Her eyes glow before she darts down the aisle, hundred miles an hour, heels blinking red with each step.
“Hey, big man. That's all for you?”
“Yep, that's it.” He scans the Ibuprofen.
“She yours?” I thumb toward the girl.
“Nah, ain't mine.” He laughs.
“Her mom around here somewhere?” I swipe my card. Push in my pin.
“Don't know.” He hands me the pills.
“How long she been here?” And then my receipt.
“Least an hour. Was here when I started my shift. Been bugging me all night.”
“That's shitty.”
“Yeah, yeah it is.” I don't think he knows what I mean.
When I walk out, I see the girl. On the shoe-scuffed tile floor, limbs sprawled out, panting and huffing and smiling, not a care in the world, or a parent.
*
“Hey, need a ride?”
“No. He'll be here soon.”
“What'd he say? How long?”
“Twenty minutes.”
“How many times you call?”
“Four.”
“How long you been waiting here?”
“Almost an hour.”
“Did he tell you twenty minutes all four times?”
“Yeah.”
“Fuck him. Let's go.”
I gesture that I'll push the cart to my car, and she lets me.
I debate asking her what kind of person goes grocery shopping in the middle of the night. On July fourth. At CVS. But I don't. I just drive until she says this is it.
*
“These aren't Advil! They're not the right fucking color, Martin.”
“Yeah, be glad it's not melted ice cream.”
“What the shit is that supposed to mean? Fucking ice cream.”
I stare at the bathroom mirror, counting the toothpaste spit marks.
She shakes the bottle in my face. “I don't want these. I want Advil. I'm not worth three fucking dollars. I swear, you just don't love me, do you?”
I point at her with my finger-gun. “On your mark, get set...”
**This story has an interesting start-to-publication tale. I wrote this a few years ago, after a late night trip to CVS where I saw some (but not all) of these people (I didn't drive home the lady with the shopping cart, but maybe should have). I finished a couple drafts, and sent this piece out into the world, where it met resounding rejection after round one. Meanwhile, my mentor and creative writing professor at Daytona State College, Dr. Michelle Lee, wanted to use a story by a former student as a mock workshop for her students, to show them the ropes and expectations of workshop without using one of her own pieces (which would be awkward) or a published piece by some famous author (which just seems silly, since it's already met fruition through publication). So, she asked me for a story and I gave her this one. For at least two semesters, she taught my story, and relayed to me the students' feedback for what they called "the CVS story," all of which helped shape future drafts. And now it's published. And my work has technically been taught in a classroom, so I'm a "taught writer," something I'm honored and humbled by, and something I think is damn groovy indeed.
This story was published by Cigale Literary Magazine and can be found here.
She laughed it off then. She cursed me out when I left our apartment.
She wants Advil. Name brand. Not generic. I am buying the generic. She will not bitch.
I won't let her see the bottle. I'll cup two pills in one hand, glass of water in the other, give her both, she'll slurp 'em down, go to sleep none the wiser, and that'll be that.
Unless she looks close at the pills. Then I'm fucked.
*
There's a lumpy white woman talking into her flip phone, face worn as a crusty towel.
“Where are you?... Me? The same place I was fifteen minutes ago. Standing out front of CVS... Come on, I got cold food... Because you said you'd be right back when you dropped me off. You're the one that asked for the damn Rocky Road, anyway, and you know it's twice as expensive here... God. Just hurry up.”
Some kind of piece of shit on the other end of the line.
Her mini-cart overflows with food, powdered donuts and chocolate peanuts and Ding Dongs, and of course the ice cream. No loaf of whole grain bread or a granola bar. Her legs look out of juice, stiff. I wonder how many times she's switched her weight from the right leg to the left and back again. Or why she doesn't just lean against the wall.
*
For a place with pharmacy on the sign, CVS sure does like to keep all the medicine tucked in the back.
I see a face. Girl whose name I don't know and probably didn't know back in the day either. She has the look on her face that I have on mine: How do I know this person? Every ghost I see around town is from high school. At least that's what I tell myself.
If she's a high school ghost, she looks the same, I think, only sluttier. Then again, it's the fourth, so I shouldn't hold excessive titty-display against her. The six pack of Smirnoff Ice in her hand, well, I can't overlook that level of piss-poor taste. Bad call, whatever your name is from wherever my mind remembers you.
There it is, just like I told her. Advil: $7.49. CVS Ibuprofen: $4.49. That's three fucking dollars, almost a gallon of gas. I keep telling her. I keep trying. It's all I can do.
*
A tall, skinny mixed girl bounces by the counter. Maybe ten years old, surely no more than twelve. She's wearing light-up shoes, the kind I begged my parents for but never got. Short pink shorts. Hair in two tails, like her favorite Brady girl is Cindy. She's chunking out words to the cashier through a smile, but I don't catch exactly what it is. Either “on your mark, get set, go!” or “one, two, three, go!” Let's say it's “one, two, three, go!” I don't like the other one so much. But it could've been that one. Who knows.
Anyway, she keeps panting. “Come on, just say it! Just say it.”
The cashier, a slim black guy with a sharp-ass goatee, is steady shaking his head.
I point at her with a finger-gun. “One, two, three, go!”
Her eyes glow before she darts down the aisle, hundred miles an hour, heels blinking red with each step.
“Hey, big man. That's all for you?”
“Yep, that's it.” He scans the Ibuprofen.
“She yours?” I thumb toward the girl.
“Nah, ain't mine.” He laughs.
“Her mom around here somewhere?” I swipe my card. Push in my pin.
“Don't know.” He hands me the pills.
“How long she been here?” And then my receipt.
“Least an hour. Was here when I started my shift. Been bugging me all night.”
“That's shitty.”
“Yeah, yeah it is.” I don't think he knows what I mean.
When I walk out, I see the girl. On the shoe-scuffed tile floor, limbs sprawled out, panting and huffing and smiling, not a care in the world, or a parent.
*
“Hey, need a ride?”
“No. He'll be here soon.”
“What'd he say? How long?”
“Twenty minutes.”
“How many times you call?”
“Four.”
“How long you been waiting here?”
“Almost an hour.”
“Did he tell you twenty minutes all four times?”
“Yeah.”
“Fuck him. Let's go.”
I gesture that I'll push the cart to my car, and she lets me.
I debate asking her what kind of person goes grocery shopping in the middle of the night. On July fourth. At CVS. But I don't. I just drive until she says this is it.
*
“These aren't Advil! They're not the right fucking color, Martin.”
“Yeah, be glad it's not melted ice cream.”
“What the shit is that supposed to mean? Fucking ice cream.”
I stare at the bathroom mirror, counting the toothpaste spit marks.
She shakes the bottle in my face. “I don't want these. I want Advil. I'm not worth three fucking dollars. I swear, you just don't love me, do you?”
I point at her with my finger-gun. “On your mark, get set...”
**This story has an interesting start-to-publication tale. I wrote this a few years ago, after a late night trip to CVS where I saw some (but not all) of these people (I didn't drive home the lady with the shopping cart, but maybe should have). I finished a couple drafts, and sent this piece out into the world, where it met resounding rejection after round one. Meanwhile, my mentor and creative writing professor at Daytona State College, Dr. Michelle Lee, wanted to use a story by a former student as a mock workshop for her students, to show them the ropes and expectations of workshop without using one of her own pieces (which would be awkward) or a published piece by some famous author (which just seems silly, since it's already met fruition through publication). So, she asked me for a story and I gave her this one. For at least two semesters, she taught my story, and relayed to me the students' feedback for what they called "the CVS story," all of which helped shape future drafts. And now it's published. And my work has technically been taught in a classroom, so I'm a "taught writer," something I'm honored and humbled by, and something I think is damn groovy indeed.
This story was published by Cigale Literary Magazine and can be found here.
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