At 25, Part 6

1996


I’m behind the counter at the liquor store, ringing up customers, putting that much-needed bottle of vodka into the shaky, cracked, dirty hands of an amiable local alcoholic. Working here often makes me sad, watching the same faces come in day after day, every few hours, filling their pockets with little bottles of booze. The bigger the alcohol problem a person has, the smaller the bottles they buy. The hardcore alcoholics prefer the tiny 50ml airplane bottles. They’re easy to hide, quickly consumed, and can be casually disposed of without anyone noticing. In a way, I consider myself a pharmacist. I’m giving people the medicine they need to feel better. To escape their problems. To run and hide inside themselves. Of course, the medicine I’m giving them will probably kill them eventually, but hey, it’s hard to find any medicine that doesn’t have a few negative side-effects.

The liquor store that currently employs me is located in a small shopping center, connected to a video store, a bank, a Chinese take-out place, and a supermarket. We get a nice mix of people here: alcoholics, future alcoholics, little old ladies playing their numbers, stoners and gangsters buying blunts, hard-working manual labor guys buying a six-pack after work, men and women in suits purchasing a nice bottle of wine for dinner, a few more alcoholics, and a steady stream of teenagers pretending to be adults. The store is located in a decent neighborhood. My co-workers are, without exception, cool. The girls who work at the video store are cute and flirty and let me watch the new releases a day early. The food from No. 1 Chinese Garden is great. Not a bad place to work, all in all. It’s a dead-end job that will get me nowhere but will pay my bills in the short-term. I’m in no hurry to get on with my life. Feel no great rush to pick a real career. I’m fine standing still. Fine smoking cigarettes and playing video games until the sun comes up. Fine bullshitting with friends, unloading beer trucks, and delaying my future for as long as possible. Fine spending as much time away from home as possible. Away from Dave.

Tonight, I’m working with Joe, who’s recently become my best friend. Joe’s a big, hairy, funny, guitar-playing, KISS-loving, chain-smoking teddy bear of a guy. Whenever I work with Joe, we have a great time. We have the same sense of humor. Also, he’s fat and I’m skinny, so clearly we make a great team. If I were the least bit funny and not deathly afraid of public speaking, we could be a comedy team and take our act on the road. Of late, people have been calling us Jay & Silent Bob, after the characters in Kevin Smith’s Jersey-set film Clerks. Joe’s a great guy, but more importantly, he’s big and intimidating, and I like to think of him as my bodyguard. He’s a gentle guy, and probably wouldn’t hurt a fly, but he looks like he’d be able to rip someone’s head right off.

Working here, I feel like I need protection. Liquor stores, in general, are not the safest places to work. Criminals always rip off liquor stores. It’s tradition, I think. And lately, over the past month, there’s been a series of liquor store robberies in the South Jersey area. Three liquor stores within five miles of mine have been robbed recently, by a guy wearing a ski mask and claiming to have a gun inside a paper bag. Guns frighten me. I can’t even hold one without shaking. If I ever owned a gun, I’m sure I’d accidentally blow my face or my pecker off. So, the idea that some asshole might come in here one night and point a gun in my face makes me feel like I’m going to piss my pants. I haven’t pissed my pants in years, but I think a gun in the face could induce an unwanted release of urine. You know, what the hell, for old time’s sake. And if I do piss my pants, Joe will never let me live it down.

It’s eight o’clock in the evening, and the store is empty except for the two of us. Alanis Morissette’s Jagged Little Pill CD plays on a nearby radio, because I love music by angry, pretty women. My CD purchases of late have been by the likes of Poe, Tracy Bonham, Liz Phair, Ani DiFranco, and Hole. I am a boy who likes girl music. I tried to deny it at first when Joe called me out on my chick-music-loving ways, but now I flaunt my lady-music CDs.

Joe hasn’t been his usual talkative self today. He looks uncomfortable, like a guy with a secret. He lights a Marlboro off of another Marlboro, then sets it down in the already overstuffed glass ashtray on the counter. Joe never stops smoking. Maybe when he’s sleeping. Maybe.

"What’s up, man?" I say, lighting a cigarette of my own. I’ve only recently become a full-time smoker, which makes me a total hypocrite. I spent my childhood trying to convince my mother to quit filling her lungs with inhaled poison, and now here I am destroying my body just as she’s done for most of her life (even during the nine months that I resided in her belly, by the way, which I sarcastically cite as the reason for any and all medical problems that befall me: as in, "Hey, Mom, the doctor says my colon is spastic. Probably because you smoked when you were pregnant. Thanks, Mom, way to go."). One night, after some especially sweaty sex, I asked to bum a cigarette off of my then-girlfriend, because she always seemed to enjoy a cigarette post-sex. Then I found myself bumming cigarettes from her more and more. Right after we broke up, I went out and bought my own pack of cigarettes. Didn’t even think about it. Just did it. I was now a smoker. My only thought at the time was They got me! Bastards!

Joe’s eyes go glossy. "I’ve got something to tell you."

"No, I will not blow you for a dollar."

"I’m serious." He rubs his eyes, looks away from me, and says, "Remember how I told you about that one and only girl I had sex with?"

I nod. "Sure. Your old roommate."

"Well, I may have exaggerated a little bit, about the sex."

I say, "Well, it’s no big deal, really. Why didn’t you think you could tell me that?"

"I just didn’t want you to think I was some kind of loser who couldn’t get laid."

I rest a gentle hand on his shoulder and offer a soothing smile. "Joe, why would you think you couldn’t tell me the truth? We’re best friends, and I already think you’re a loser, so what difference does it make?"

Joe’s dark brown eyes go wide for a second, a moment of panic maybe, then he laughs and says, "You motherfucker. I hate you."

"You love me. I’m adorable."

He gives me the once-over. "Well, you are kind of cute. Those dimples are hot. I’d fuck you, well, if you wore a pretty wig or something. I don’t know that I could sleep with someone wearing a backwards baseball cap. That might be kind of, um...really fucking gay."

I laugh ‘til I cough, then I turn my head and notice that Dave is standing on the other side of the counter. My brother. Grinning like he just found a dollar on the floor. Doing what he does best. Appearing out of nowhere. I don’t want to see him. Because he always wants something. I’ve been wondering how long it was going to take him to show up here. Dave’s an alcoholic and I work in a liquor store. I guess the lightbulb finally went off in his head after a year.

"What’s up, Erv?" Dave says, his grin widening, showing off that sexy gap up top where his tooth used to be. "You work at a liquor store and you never bring home free beer. What’s up with that? Hook me up!"

Joe says he has to go take a dump, then walks to the back of the store.

"What do you need, Dave?" I ask.

"How about a case of beer on the five-finger discount?" he says. "Phil’s out in the truck. How about we load up the back of the truck with a few cases of beer on the house and call it even? You still owe me for that time I robbed the candy store for you."

"You didn’t rob the candy store for me."

"You ate the chocolate, man. You ate it. You ate the candy, so you were, like, an accessory."

"I was what? Eight years old? I was just a kid."

"Erv, bro, pal, buddy, all I’m sayin’ is, I hooked you up back then, and right now I could use some free beer. I could use the hook-up."

I try to ignore the shooting pains that are suddenly bouncing around in my belly, but the discomfort causes me to bend over and lean on the counter for support. "Dave, I can’t give you any free beer. I’m not about to get fired just so you can get drunk. I can give you my employee discount. Twenty percent. But that’s it."

"That’s fucking weak." He takes a step back and shakes his head, then forces a smile. "Sure, whatever. That’s cool, man. Don’t even sweat it. Hey, it was worth a shot, right? Can’t blame a dude for trying."

I glance up at the surveillance camera that’s pointed at the register. It doesn’t record sound, only captures grainy black and white video. "There’s been a bunch of robberies in the area lately. That liquor store right down the street got ripped off last week. The owner’s really nervous that he’s next. I can’t have any kind of funny business going on here at all. Not now. It’s a bad time."

"You’re not going to get robbed," he says matter-of-factly.

"You don’t know that."

He looks around, makes sure no one but me is around to hear him. "I do know it. Because you’re my brother, man. That’s why. I wouldn’t do that to you."

"I don’t get it." Then, suddenly, I get it.

I wish I had a time machine. I want to go back ten seconds and then cover my ears. Want to not know what I now know. "Fuck you, Dave. You’re lying."

"Am I? Remember all those cuts I had last week? Those scrapes and bruises? That was from hiding in the prickly bushes. I hid for fucking hours until the smoke cleared. Every time I went to get up, some police car would roll by. I was paranoid, let me tell ya."

I quietly say, "Shit, Dave. Don’t tell me these things. Damn it."

"I’m just sayin', man, if you’re worried about being robbed like those other stores, don’t. And if you tell anyone what I just told you, I will fucking destroy you." He stares at me, lets me know he’s not joking. Then he smiles and says, "I’m just joking. Let me get a pack of smokes, a sixer of Bud, and some rolling papers. You can buy ‘em for me and I’ll pay you back next week. That cool?"

"Sure," I say. "That’s cool."

A minute later, Dave’s gone and Joe’s standing beside me, his guitar in his hands. He says, "You okay, Erv? You look like you’ve seen a ghost."

"Nah, I’m cool."

Joe sits down on the stool and starts strumming on his Gibson Les Paul, his prize possession.
"You wanna come over after work and play some football? I’m in the mood to kick your ass."

"What a coincidence. I’m in the mood to have my ass kicked."

He adds, "And I promise not to break the controller again if I lose. I just hate to lose."

"I know you do," I say. "I don’t mind losing so much. I’m used to it. I’m good at losing."

A customer comes in and buys a six-pack of Corona and a lime, and I ring him up as Joe plays a few seconds of "Desperado" on his guitar. Another customer comes in and buys a cheap bottle of wine. A short black man comes in and says he needs something to get his lady "in the mood." A teenager comes in and, after I refuse to sell him beer, says, "Come on, man. Don’t be an asshole. Why are you being such a prick? I won’t tell anybody." Customers come and go. Joe plays his guitar, a cigarette dangling from his lips. I feel content.

The night passes quickly. We are not robbed at gunpoint. We close the store. Joe counts the money and we leave. We stop at 7-11 for soda and snacks. Joe kicks my ass at the Sega video football game we play every night. I’m always the Eagles. I almost always lose. Life goes on. I vow to never again think of what Dave told me tonight. I’m going to put the information into a secret compartment in my brain. A locked compartment. Then I’m going to lose the imaginary key. Dave was probably just kidding anyway.

Sure, that’s it.

It’s all a big joke.