The miniature fan boat I’ve constructed from an opened (not by me) but unpurchased package of index cards left behind on a shelf and a roll of Saran Wrap glides across the counter as I blow on plastic stretched across a paper ring at the stern. It shimmies a bit on the open stretch of glass between the register and the radio, but straightens out in the run over the scratch ticket case in the sheltered valley behind the boxes of condoms. When it crosses the finish line I’ve laid out with an Original Beef Flavor Slim Jim, I cheer and clap in my head.
My post-regatta celebration is cut short by a clutch of young men in white baseball caps filing into the store in identical clean sneakers and khaki shorts, pausing at the door to swill the last dregs of Budweiser before dropping their cans in the bushes outside. They all look so much alike I rub my eyes to be certain I’m not seeing things.
The last one into the store stops and leans his head against the measuring tape. “Dude,” he says, “get my height, in case I rob you,” and I don’t bother saying I’ve heard it before. I don’t tell him how old that joke is.