The bulletproof glass held two reflections.
His own— impatient, wanting to shove this overpriced premium ice cream bar in his mouth before it melted into gourmet goo, and his brother’s: stoic to a stranger, impassive, but Eddie knew that Gordon was internally raging. It was only his salesman’s brain that could keep him pokerfaced.
Too close to the counter to show an accurate reflection was a guy who couldn’t remember if his girlfriend wanted regular smokes or 100’s.
The guy behind the counter, behind the glass, was of no help, shrugging his shoulders as the customer babbled.
“C’mon, she comes here all the time, Cheryl, red hair, you flirt with her, I seent ya.”
“Sorry boss, don’t know,” the cashier said.
“It’s your girlfriend, champ,” Gordon said,” kinda on you, not him, to know her smokes.”
The guy wheeled around to say something to Gordon, and Eddie felt like the guy planned on the statement being tough, maybe sarcastic, until he saw Gordon’s eyes. They were steel grey like a muffler right out of the box and had some magic that made everyone but Eddie see things his way.
The cigarette guy said “ Hey, look…” then after a defeated pause “I know.”
Eddie snickered.
“What would you do?” The guy asked Gordon.
“Buy both kinds. She probably has an empty pack at the house, maybe in the garbage. When ya get home, find it, hand her the right pack, return the other one later.”
Gordon stepped around the guy. “Five easy pick Megamillions, and two slices of pizza, the top one, with the pineapple.”
The guy stared at Gordon, not sure he was cool with the line cut. Eddie stepped a little closer to the guy.
Gordon didn’t like to be touched unless he initiated a post-sale hug. All it would take was for red-haired Cheryl’s forgetful boyfriend to tap him and Gordon would turn into an Irish-American Roman Candle.
The guy opened a palm with crumpled bills and quarters.
“I only have enough for one pack.”
Gordon howled with laughter like he was in the front row of a Patton Oswalt show, not in a Detroit party store with a suit and a wristwatch four tax brackets above the neighborhood.
“You’re killin’ me,” Gordon said, then “and get this guy both kinds of whatever smokes he needs, 100s and regulars.”
Gordon pushed a fifty in the small silver trough beneath the bulletproof glass.
“You don’t have to do that…” The guy paused. He didn’t want to call Gordon “sir”, Eddie knew it. He was probably five years older than Eddie’s brother.
“Bro,” the guy chose.
Eddie shivered. Gordon hated bro.
“I’m not your bro,” Gordon said, taking his change, his lottery, and his pizza and walking single-mindedly out the door.
The cashier put two packs of smokes in the carousel.
Eddie held up the ice cream bar.
“Four Ninety-Five, boss,” the cashier said. Eddie put a five-dollar bill in the trough and waited for his nickel. He had not been as financially successful as his brother. Not even close. Most people didn’t know they were related, thought Eddie might be an employee or something.
He exited the party store, evening sun shining intrusively from the west.
Eddie averted his eyes from the glare. To the north, on the corner, was Peggy and her milk crates full of bracelets.
Gordon stood by his Volvo, tapping his foot impatiently, inhaling pizza like a defensive lineman does oxygen after a 90-yard fumble return.
Peggy waved at Eddie.
Even across the street and the parking lot, Eddie saw the plaintive look in her eye.
No one going west stopped to buy this time of night, staring into the sun, wanting to be home from work, but the party store wouldn’t let her set up on their side of the street where the traffic was facing away from the sun and people were happily headed into the bar districts.
Gordon dropped the wad of pizza tinfoil on the ground and tapped his diamond-encrusted whatever- the-fuck-Eddie-didn’t really care Swiss timepiece.
“I hate missing first pitch,” Gordon yelled, “my tickets.” Eddie knew both those things. Very well. It was the gospel according to Gordon. But…
“Hey, gimmie ten bucks, I’m gonna grab a bracelet, I got no cash, just plastic.”
Eddie pointed at Peggy’s little setup across the street.
“Fuck that homeless bitch, let’s go. Verlander on the hill. Hate missing first pitch.”
Eddie kept his hand outstretched, palm up.
“Peggy ain’t homeless, she knits these little good luck bracelets, sells ‘em, and gives the money to the homeless. She’s got a house.”
Gordon smiled. It wasn’t really a smile so much as a tool to announce that he was smarter than everyone else.
“She’s got a home? Great, then she doesn’t need us.”
Gordon hopped in the Volvo and fired it up.
Peggy looked over at Eddie. She had never seen him with his brother, or for that matter, anywhere near a car. He didn’t own one.
“You bought that dildo a few packs of smokes, I thought you were in a generous mood.”
“I wanted to keep him the fuck out of my way. It was worth it.”
“Loan me twenty bucks and swing past Peggy, we got time. She’s so sweet. Her husband died and she doesn’t…”
“Are you the fucking Lifetime Network around here?” Gordon hit his turn signal and looked over at Peggy.
“Look at her, she’s like 80, of course her husband is dead. Jeezus. You keep spending your money on knit good luck bracelets, you’re never gonna get out of this neighborhood.”
Gordon pulled out onto the two-lane.
Brakes squealed, and someone leaned on their horn, then stopped in front of Gordon’s Volvo at the light. Gordon hand heeled his steering wheel and went into a hissing string of epithets.
“Loan me twenty bucks,” Eddie said.
Gordon made a sound like air coming out of a bike tire.”
Eddie lowered his window.
“Hi Peggy.”
“Hi Eddie! Beautiful car.”
Gordon looked both ways, pulled to the right of the car in front of them, partially onto the curb.
Eddie knew what was next.
He leaned out the window and tossed Peggy the fancy ice cream bar as Gordon punched the gas and ran the red so he wouldn’t miss first pitch.
***
Photo by Sergi Kabrera on Unsplash
Keep keeping it real Doom
nice