only meaningful news in the desert mall: 1:37 p.m., 119 degrees.
While I waited for a shaking spasm to subside, my brain assembled a frantic scheme. To make it work all I needed was a drinking cup.
Pulling up to a parking space in front of the pizza restaurant, I cut the engine and the air conditioning. Through the windows I could see two or three customers eating lunch on the enclosed patio. Opening the car door, I sucked in my breath, and stepped into the volcanic heat.
Just inside, at the first empty table, I found what I needed: a used, tall, waxed soft-drink cup with ‘Mendoza’s Pizzeria’ stamped on the side. A red straw was sticking up through the plastic lid. Grabbing the cup, I walked out.
Across the parking lot, staying in the shade of the mall roof as I walked, I made it to Thrifty’s. My gut spasming and cramping was now constant.
The big drug/department store was cool inside. Wonderful. Only one cashier and a handful of customers. I pushed my damp hair back and tucked in my shirt.
Empty pizza-drink cup in hand, impersonating a nonchalant shopper, I made my way to the liquor department. Next to a vodka display, after making sure no one was watching, I unscrewed the cap on a half-gallon jug of Smirnoff from the back row. Then, holding the fat bottle beneath eye level of the liquor rack, I tipped it down until my cup was filled. Sixteen ounces of clear joy juice. I spun the cap back on and returned the decanter to its empty slot. As I walked away, even before I had the straw to my mouth, even before my first hit, I felt a wave of peace soothe my body, like a kiss from God.
For a long while I was content to roam the store’s aisles, sucking back deep wallops through my straw as I went. Making the rounds of the different departments.
Always a fan of clever display advertising, I paused to admire a nifty five-foot-high fold-out of an actress’s parted red lips in the makeup/perfume area. My brain envisioned the size of a cut-out erect cock for a compatible exhibit.
Greeting cards were next. Cleaning products. Microwave ovens and counter-top appliances.
A realization came. An intimate anthropological understanding. Everything important in life could be found at Thrifty’s. Everything. If one never left—a person could spend the rest of their life going from store to store in the vast California chain operation. All Thrifty outlets had a paperback best-seller section and were uniformly climate controlled.
Arriving at Soft Drinks, I realized that I was more than half way down on my cup. Working up a very good buzz.
It was time to make a health decision. Opening the glass stand-up cooler, I popped the top on a can in a six-pack of Schweppes Tonic Water, then splashed in a few ounces with my vodka. Sweet bubbles to help soothe my troubled digestive tract. I slid the can back in its place with the others and let the glass door hiss closed.
From behind me I heard someone clearing his throat.
Turning, I saw a person, a man. He was planted several feet away near a lightbulb display, observing me. A rat-faced little fuck in khaki work clothes, a carton of Benson & Hedges Menthol Lights tucked under his arm. The logo on his shirt pocket read: Duke’s Killer Tillers.
He stepped closer. ‘You going to buy that six-pack of soda, buster?’ he inquired angrily.
‘What?’ I said, self-assured, my hand empty except for the Mendoza’s Pizza drink cup. ‘Are you speaking to me?’
‘Don’t lie. You just poured from that can of soda. Then you put it back. I seen you.’
‘I believe you’re mistaken.’
This further pissed him off. He scanned me up and down, then marched up to a foot from my chest. I was now able to make out the name sewn in smaller script above the Duke’s Killer Tillers logo on his shirt. This was Duke himself. ‘My ass!’ he sneered. ‘I been observing you. The manager of this store, Ray, is a friend of mine. A good man. A straight shooter. Around here, we look out for each other’
‘How swell for you,’ says I, a little goofy from my vodka. ‘I’d wager that you and Ray have observed your share of serial killers and Shiite terrorist suspects prowling around the Arco Station or that pizza joint across the parking lot.’
Duke let his carton of cigarettes drop to the floor. He was ready for action. ‘There’s two ways