Having so many different colorful packages in my line of sight hurt my brain after a while. Racks of chips and crackers, gums and sodas, cigarettes and beer, energy packs and water filters, magazines, 3-D porn—there was barely a square foot of blank space for my eyes to rest on.
Amos stared out the window, arms folded, pistol tucked into his belt.
“How’s it going, Amos?” I said.
“Just fine. Just fine,” he said without turning his head. Amos wasn’t much on talking. His qualifications for the job seemed to be that he owned a gun and was eager to use it.
The door jingled. An incredibly skinny woman came in, her hair so white it looked blonde, two fingers clutching a cigarette. She wandered the aisles, whispering to herself. From behind, you could easily mistake her for a girl in her twenties. If you did, her shrunken, wrinkled, toothless face would give you a jolt when she turned around. She walked with the knock-kneed energy of a godflash addict, which she probably was. She grabbed a packet of malted milk balls and brought them to the counter.
“I’m doing fine,” she said, holding out a five, taking a pull on her cigarette, not noticing that I hadn’t actually asked.
“That’s good to hear,” I said, handing back her change. Amos watched her go, alert to any sign of a grab and dash.
Another woman put a box of tampons on the counter, opened her overstuffed purse and dug through it.
“Twelve seventy-six,” I said. It still felt strange to hear my voice say convenience store cashier things, to watch my hands accept payment and make change from the register. I had figured I was done with these sorts of jobs the day I graduated from Emory.
The woman gave an exasperated sigh, pulled a couple of things out of her purse and set them on the counter: Wallet. Key ring. Heat Taser. She continued searching.
“Wouldn’t your money be in the wallet?” I asked.
She smiled. “You’d think so, but no.” Her bra strap was hanging out of her shirt sleeve. “Um, could you put that in a bag?” she said without looking up.
It took me a second to get why she was asking me to do what I was obviously going to do in a moment anyway. A seven a.m. purchase of tampons at a convenience store. Emergency. She didn’t relish everyone in the store knowing about her urgent feminine needs. “Oh.” I snared a plastic bag from under the counter and stuffed the tampons into it. “Sorry.”
“Thanks.”
“No problem.”
“Ah!” She handed me a twenty.
“I guess there are certain items that need to be bagged immediately,” I said as I snared coins out of the till with two fingers.
“Yes. Tampons, pregnancy kits…”
“Pornography,” I offered.
“Good one,” she said, pointing at me. She was pretty in a slightly harsh, Eastern European sort of way. Dirty-blonde hair, her front teeth crooked but white. A little older than me, thirty-three or so.
I tried to think of something else to say, but my mind was suddenly a vast wasteland. I thought we were flirting. I was pretty clueless when it came to flirting, but I thought maybe we were, and I was dropping the ball.
“Do you live around here?” she asked.
“About four blocks away, on East Jones,” I said, silently counting the bills into her hand. “Where do you live?”
“Southside.”
“Wow, you’re far from home.” Southside was a good four miles away. Usually I was leery about long-distance relationships, but it was so easy to look into her blue eyes; it felt like I could go hours without blinking if I could just keep looking into them.
“I was in class. SCAD.”
The Savannah College of Art and Design. Great reputation, outrageous tuition, no scholarships. Rich girl. I was probably misinterpreting polite kindness for flirtatious interest, given my station in life. I was wearing a name tag, for god’s sake.
“What are you studying?” I asked.
“Graphic design. Change of career—I worked in corporate recruiting for ten years.”
“Interesting.” There was another awkward pause. She hovered, waited for me to say something. The only other customers in the store were puttering in the back, searching for just the right flavor of Gatorade. Amos was staring into the street, watching for marauders.
“You ever make your way down here at night, to see bands or anything?” I asked. Why not, what did I have to lose?
“No. Too rough around here at night. I tend to hang out in Southside.”
“Mmm,” I said. If she knew the question was meant to test the waters, she wasn’t biting.
“You should come to Southside some time,” she said, shrugging the shoulder that had lost its bra strap.
“Where would I go, if I came to Southside?”
She shrugged and smiled. “Snowstorm is fun.”
“You think you’ll be hanging out at Snowstorm Saturday night?”
“Possibly,” she said as she slung her purse over her shoulder. She waved, winked, and headed for the door. I was impressed—almost no one can wink without it seeming hokey and contrived, but she pulled it off.
My nineteen-year-old boss appeared on the sidewalk outside; he and the girl whose name I forgot to ask passed each other in the doorway.
“Hello, hello,” Ruplu said, grinning as he joined me behind the counter. “All is well?”
I nodded.
“Good. It’s payday. How many hours did you put in this week?” He opened the register.
I never had to remind Ruplu it was payday. “Forty-four,” I said. He counted two hundred forty-two dollars onto the counter. It was amazing, the way the guy trusted me. It was reckless. Lots of people thought they were reckless—fast drivers, kick boxers—but trusting a stranger to tell you how many hours he’d worked, that was truly reckless, and I admired him for it.
I namaste’d Ruplu and headed for the exit, squeezing the bills inside my pocket and fighting back tears. I tended to cry on payday. The first time Ruplu counted out those bills I blubbered like a babe. A job. My parents would’ve found a way to be proud, even if the job did involve mopping floors and stacking tins of sardines.
I’d known I was going to miss my parents terribly when they died, but I didn’t realize how I’d miss them. When something interesting happened, one of my first thoughts used to be how I had to call my folks in Arizona and fill them in. They had been omnipresent observers to the unfolding of my life. That day three years ago, when my sister called to tell me they’d been killed in a water riot, it was as if my third eye had been shut. No one was watching over my shoulder any more.
The street smelled damp and vaguely fecal. It had rained earlier; the people camped on the sidewalks were wet and miserable. Savannah was a magnet, pulling people to its streets clutching filthy blankets and packs filled with whatever they could carry from whichever small town they’d come. It was a relief to no longer be one of them, to be able to bathe occasionally (even if the water was cold), and to change my clothes occasionally (even if the clothes came from the Salvation Army thrift shop). It was nice to be in a place where a professional woman might want to go out with me.
I cut through Chippewa Square—the center of the universe as far as my life was concerned—and passed through the shadow cast by General Oglethorpe’s statue. A little boy was walking along the concrete skirting at the base of the statue, kicking garbage off it in a sort of game. Kids made me nervous—I had no idea what to say to them, didn’t understand their language.