Nine of Pentacles

The Market—LATE AFTERNOON

I talk to the homeless, for a sec, and then wander into the all-nite supermarket. The store has everything, and I re-kindle a little good feeling toying with a state-of-the-art computer on display, and then play a short blues tune on a nearby piano for sale. Somewhere I can hear someone else is performing and everyone is enthralled. I wonder if I am invisible. But, I spot Andrea coming down the rows, shopping and decide I need to piss, and head into the customer service area before she spots me.

Empty, again. In all senses. I need to find the booze section of this place. I find it way in the back, near abandoned.

I look around the dusty, barren department. The shelves are bare, but I find that there are a few liquor selections behind the counter and register, as well as a long line for them. I wait in line impatiently, sizing up my choices. Many of the other patrons look seedy and there are some homeless men passing a bottle in one corner. I scrutinize the selection, thinking most everything is either very expensive or low in proof, and all is in short supply! After an agonizing wait I am finally in front of the tired-looking cashier.

“Whaddaya want?” she growls.

I remove hat and glasses to reveal my now skeletal face. It is a face no one ought to trifle with. Scrutinizing the shelves again, I point to some brightly colored bottles on the top-shelf.

“If I may be frank,” I say frankly, “Given the choices, I’d like to order a fifth of Seagram’s 7, but maybe I’ll switch to that orange soda-like vodka concoction after that gentleman in front of me purchased. It comes in a liter?”

“Yea.” The sallow, haggard woman gets it from a very high shelf, it color is distractingly synthetic and it has a cartoonishly evil label. I hand over a twenty dollar bill, as she rings up the bottle as $7.25. A homeless man pushes in front of me.

“And another round for us, too.”

The cashier nods and punches the register. “Okay, that will be $17.50.”

She hands me back a bit of change and a receipt and I leave the counter. I stare at my bill as I walk away. It is just dawning on me that I’ve just paid for this bum’s drinks. I march back to the counter, pushing ahead of the new customers. Politely, though, I press.

“Miss? You charged me for that gentleman’s bottles too. I don’t know him and didn’t expect to treat him.”

“I’ll fix it.”

She turns and continues to take orders from the others in line. She makes no move to do get my proper change. I feel humiliated, but figure, “Forget it. Let the old man have his bottle. He reminds me of my father anyway. Consider it Atonement for one my other sins.” With that, I give up waiting, and head back to the street.