Vagabonds: Anthology of the Mad Ones Vagabonds Vol. 3 | Página 52

At the Beer Distributor
Garth B. Porter
After work, I stop to get a case of beer and find myself standing in
line behind a young couple. The girl puts a case on the check-out counter
and her boyfriend adds another. “This should last about a week,” she says
to her boyfriend. She's wearing a halter top, capri pants, and sandals and
looks to be about twenty-five. I can't tell if she's making fun of herself or
her boyfriend or both. The boyfriend, for his part, offers no reaction. He's
tall, probably over six feet and about the same age. Expressionless, as if
his mind is on some long ended baseball game or earlier shift at work, he
stares straight ahead at the wall of cigarettes behind the counter.
The cashier, a muscular guy in his mid-thirties that I've never seen
here before, says nothing. He doesn't ask for their ID's but he looks
hesitant, as if he's weighing the consequences of this in his mind. Sure,
they're probably both twenty-one, but what if this girl, who claims to go
through two cases a week, looks older than she really is? Perhaps her
premature alcoholism has aged her prematurely. He scans the cases, takes
the boyfriend's debit-card, and rings the couple out. Off to his right, a
television suspended from the ceiling plays a baseball game. They always
play sports at this distributor, usually hockey or baseball.
I stand in line, case of beer in hand, and watch the ball-game while
I wait my turn. The halter-top girl and her boyfriend take a case each and
head for the exit. The girl, with another week's supply of beer secured,
starts talking to the boyfriend about less critical matters. One of their
friends is, apparently, a slut of some kind and I can hear the girlfriend
explaining why as the couple exits. The boyfriend nods in agreement. I
place my case of Yeungling Lager on the counter while the girlfriend's
voice fades and then disappears as the door closes behind them.
“How's it going?” I say to the cashier.
He gives me a nod, “Alright,” and scans the case. I hand him my
debit card and driver’s license. We stand in silence as the machine verifies
my bank card.
“Thanks, Garth,” the cashier says, having gleaned my name from
my ID, and he hands my cards back. He puts my receipt on top of the case.
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