$3.38
Kaely Durward
She pulled out a checkbook, coupons protruding out, fumbled with the community pen, and, while flipping through the checkbook, put the anchored instrument into her mouth, her tongue hanging fat out. Eggplant Man was disgusted. His upper lip curled, making his nostrils wing out as if preparing his nose for flight, his nose a kamikaze assigned on behalf of fundamental community understanding: lick, bite, chew, gnaw, eat your own damn pen, but keep your mouth off this one. But she was oblivious. She could have been replaying the day’s events: the dentist’s appointment she had at ten, her friend’s Great Dane she had promised to watch for a week while he visited Holland that had, while in her station wagon gnawed a piece of foam out of the upholstery. “Do you want help out with these?” I asked. “Huh? Oh no, but thanks for asking.” “I get paid to ask.” She left. Two boys wearing khakis and ball caps entered. Steve, Safeway’s undercover security and enforcer of law, clump-clumped steadily down the adjacent staircase. When Eggplant looked at Security Steve, I snatched a paper towel and doused the pen with glass cleaner, the only viable solution at my disposal, and rubbed off, or at least polished, the purple sweat suit woman’s saliva. Eggplant lurched forward. The fellow looked nervous. “The Pentagon Dispatches a 3rd Carrier Toward Gulf,” announced the newspaper, which, I soon discovered, revealed the source of this man’s nervousness: a box of Preparation H shrank beneath images of B-52 and B-1 bombers. “Seven-o-two, please.” At this, the man flashed out his debit card, then slid it violently through the debit-card-paying machine. Left, right, up he peered, scanning his surroundings, his eyes wide open as if the weight of the purple mole had evaporated into the overhanging lights. But there was only me. His left hand hovered close above the machine, while his right jabbed at the buttons of his fear—fear that 60 Minutes had planted in him and that distrust had nurtured. Saxifrage
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