I press A7 on the vending machine — it shudders as my Mountain Dew gets stuck in the contraption, grunts like an old man coming in his sock. Its LED lights flicker as I kick the damn thing one, two, three times, the stupid spiral rod vibrating as the bottle inches free. It lands in the tray with a thwack, comes through the hopper flap all foamed up. Break will be over before it’s drinkable.
They’re putting Pops to death tonight.
His lawyer called a couple months ago, said the date’s been set. Told me she’s still pushing for a last-minute stay and all that, that there’s still a chance the governor steps in, but I could hear it in the way her sentences kept trailing off at the ends, like she was running out of breath or something. I knew what she was getting at. She told me I could come witness it, that it’s my right. Said to think it over, and to take the day off anyhow.
I’m checking out a customer when the fire alarm goes off — thin white lady, ponytail pulled so tight I can see the dandruff flaking under her hair. She’s buying one of those diet microwave dinners, two bottles of white wine. Glares as me when the siren starts, like it’s my fault or something — just for that I pack her shit real slow, wait ’til her reward card’s back in her wallet then tell her the barcode didn’t scan. Thank you for shopping with us today. Come again soon!
Cigarette out back, while they’re messing with the alarm. I promised Mom I’d quit, back when she was around. Took it real serious, did the gum and patches and everything. Even went to the VA, met with some specialist who got me on those Nicotrol inhalers — but then they stopped making those and Mom got sick and soon enough I was right back where I started.
I wonder if they’ll give Pops a cigarette. Could hardly hurt him now.
I drive to the Crow’s Nest after my shift, the radio turned up so loud the whole truck’s shaking. My boot’s flat on the gas — there’s barely 30 miles left in the tank but that’s a tomorrow problem. I screech into the parking lot, almost running some guy over — definitely my bad but I give him the finger anyway. Barkeep starts pouring my whiskey as walk in.
We take a shot together, me and the barkeep. Old Jamaican guy, been working here forever. He pours one out for Pops too, gives me a double on the house. A couple more rounds get me good and drunk, my head all light and fuzzy as I head back to my truck. I have another cigarette in the parking lot, and the Mountain Dew from work — heard they help sober you up.
Driving home, the empty soda bottle rolling around in the passenger seat as I turn. Same song on the radio — one of those 70s rock ballads that goes on so long it makes you feel like it must’ve looped around and started over, or maybe you’ve just never heard it the whole way through before. At some point I start singing along. Key in the lock, the dog in the next trailer over barking as I hang up my coat. I check the time — 12:19 AM. Guess I’m an orphan.
Cailín Frankland (she/they) is a British-American writer and public health professional based in Baltimore, Maryland. A Rhysling finalist, Best Microfiction nominee, and Briefly Write Poetry Prize shortlistee, their work has been featured in numerous print and online publications. They live with their spouse, two old lady cats, a rotating cast of foster animals, and a 70-pound pitbull affectionately known as Baby. You can find them on X as @cailin_sm.
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