"bro's"

the guy @ the 7/11 calls me "bro."

he's an Asian.

looks Thai, maybe Hmong.

i call him Jackie after Jackie Chan. a poor man's Jackie Chan with grizzled hands and slippery mitts hardened by callouses.

Jackie stands behind the counter looking rather blank.

expressionless.

until i reach his register.

he calls me "bro," and looks me in the eye like an old friend.

barely know him.

visit the establishment in the wee hours.

five bucks.

five-hour energy.

Lemonheads, three packs.

Yoohoo or Coke Zero.

my routine.

last night though, he wasn't behind the counter.

he passed me in line, his hand clenched; attached to a girl.

30-something Hispanic.

gordita-type.

eye-brows thin and black and not exactly even.

a Raiders hoodie riding high on Costco jeans.

i watched them walk outside -- calm, mute, and determined.

determined to hit the street, hang a right -- seeking repose on a cement divider.

an Indian-type rang me up.

he did not call me "bro."

he did not call me anything.

just "four-ninety-five," in a rather monotone voice.

i left a bit empty.

really.

i pounded the bottled energy in my car.

it tasted like rancid goat piss.

with a hint of grape.

wishing i had a Yoohoo to wash the chemical stain down my throat.

but i didn't, so i sat there cringing, sucking my tongue.

popping quatro Lemonheads, my head cocked starboard.

eyes falling on Jackie and his girl (let's call her Lupe)

smoking cigarettes and talking gently, his arm around Lupe's waist.

looking pleased.

VROOM! i kicked the car into reverse and rumbled down gaffey street.

slight smile on my face as the Lemonheads turned sweet.

bitterness all gone.