“Gimme a box a Gashas, homes.”
“A box of whats?”
“Gashas!” I give my blankest blank stare. “Fuckin’ Gashas, man! Gashas!” He waves a drunk finger, trying to point at something behind me. I look around as if there might be some item for sale back there I’ve never noticed before. “Gasha why Vegas! Blunts!” he yells.
“Oh, Garcia y Vegas… it’s ‘gar-see-a eee vay-has.’ It’s Spanish.”
“What fuckin’ ever, just give ‘em.”
“Only when you say it right.”
“You’re an asshole.”
“Do you have ID?”
He reaches across the counter with a finger like the head of a pick, and taps my name tag, hard, once after “Fuck” and again after “You.” I’m confident if anything happens to me, the dummy cameras are watching.