At the Egg Liquor & Market
Maria Mathioudakis

The bleach blonde manager
asked me if I spoke Spanish.
I lied
and got hired on the spot.

The job involved a lot of memorization,
she said,
before they’d let me work on my own.
Prices,
signatures,
faces.

"Two-sixteen, señor."
I have to point
to the number flashing on the register
because he doesn’t recognize the English
from my lips.
He smiles
and I smile
as he pulls a wad of
bills out of his pocket
and counts them out,
wrinkled and
damp.

By now
I know
I’m here to
take their money,
bag their booze,
their Hostess Snowballs,
their Orange Crush,
stick matches in the bag
with the Swisher Sweets.

I’m the one they see
when they show up
in the morning,
hunched over,
white breath
stiff from the cold.

And I’m the one they see
when they show up
thirsty
and lousy
on their way home.
I’m there all day
behind the counter
looking at the scars on their
arms
and the bags under their eyes.

I wonder
if he’s paying with his coin collection
because he’s going bankrupt.
If his kid is crying because the dog ran away.
If she’s drinking because her husband’s gone,
or if her son knocked up a seventeen year old.

When it’s time to leave
I count all the money
lock the door
sanitize my hands
and drive home.