I AM SUCH a good girl. I prove, with the direct route I take, that I can do this. I spy the yellow cooler against the back and walk directly to it, not passing GO, not taking two hundred dollars or the life of the little old lady who checks out the gum aisle. I slide open the cooler and examine the chocolate. Oohh… Godiva chocolate–covered vanilla. Gas station fare has gotten fancy in my time away. I stay loyal, breathing a sigh of relief when I see the Snickers, king-sized, at the back. I grab one, think about two, I can come back for more, and shut the lid. Eleven steps to the right. Sodas. Rows and rows, stacks and stacks. I hesitate briefly at Cherry Coke but keep moving, grab a can of Dr Pepper, and shut the case.
I am doing so well! Thoughts behaving, mind clear. A simple errand that is, obviously, no trouble to my psyche. My eyes notice more. Tampons in the row before me. Cleaning supplies. Red Bull. A sewing kit. Phone cards. I could shop online less. Come here more. Just across the street, no reason not to. I don’t have to order bottled water online; they sell it here.
I step to the register, one man ahead of me. My eyes skip over him. Bald. Old. Small. Still too big for me to tackle. He steps up to the counter, slides over a lotto card, lead dots peppering its surface.
I stand in place, shifting my weight from one foot to the other. My feet are hot. Itchy. They aren’t used to the constriction of socks and shoes and the blow of an overenthusiastic gas station heater.
Something’s wrong with the man’s lottery card. Bits of discussion float over the man’s shoulder with the scent of… I sniff, trying to hide the action. Sawdust? I glance over his backside. Worn jeans, dark wash. Boots. A red T-shirt, pulled up on one side enough to show the hint of… I squint, move closer. Bend to the side slightly for a better look. I think it’s a Leatherman. My heart picks up pace, drumming a happy rhythm in my chest.
My father had a Leatherman. It was a Christmas present, selected by my mother, and wrapped in ribbon and stuck under the tree. I watched him open it, earbuds already put in, my iPod rudely blaring any thought of family time from my head, the entire present-opening experience set to the tune of Mötley Crüe. I didn’t notice anything particularly special about the present, smiled politely when he oohed and aahed over the nine tiny knives, the fourteen other accompaniments that would open wine corks, unscrew eyeglass threads, tweeze, puncture, hole punch, saw. I smiled, I listened to my music, and I wondered if any of the other yet-to-be-unwrapped presents under the tree were mine. During the next two years, I occasionally had need of his gift, would wrap my small hands around the metal tool, cutting wire or unscrewing the back of the remote. I never thought about the many ways it could be used to torture. Kill.
But now, with NeverGonnaWinMillions taking his sweet jolly time before me, his pencil now working on a new card, slowly filling in circles, the scratch of lead driving me I’ll-kill-you-now crazy, I can think of all sorts of ways to use that tool. How the fourteen accompaniments could complement the nine knives in a variety of he’ll-scream-so-loud ways. My hands tighten on reflex, and I feel the ice cream bar squish slightly, melting in my hot hands and this furnace of a store. Motherfucker. If this jackpot-chaser costs me any bit of chocolate nut bliss, I’ll start the mayhem right now.
I clear my throat, a suggestive action that prompts no response whatsoever. Scratch. Scribble. He pauses, looks up to the ceiling as if he is trying to remember a nostalgic date. Scribble. Fill. I sigh as loudly as humanly possible, and wonder how long it would take to sever his pencil-gripping hand with the baby saw enclosed in that Leatherman. I move closer and crouch to tie my shoes, the act an excuse to examine the tool closer, my eyes noting that it, just sitting in the harness, could be pulled out with one quick snatch. Flipped open so the sharp needles of the pliers are exposed. My fingers twitch around the candy. If I yank it out it’ll take a moment for him to respond, a moment to turn around. Am I fast enough?
I step back as the man straightens and pushes his scratch card forward. Thank God. I release a shaky breath and move an extra step away, closing my eyes tightly as I spend a moment cursing myself. My weakness. Weakness that almost ruined this moment. The man before me moves, stuffing his ticket in his back pocket and nodding to the cashier, his steps relaxed as he steps toward the door. My eyes try for one more glimpse at the Leatherman before I step to the counter, my eyes catching on the lit screen beside the register, advertising in proud letters a Hundred-Million-Dollar Jackpot! I set my items on the counter.
“Sorry ’bout that.” The man wheezes, his words whistling out through a month’s worth of beard growth. “The big drawing’s tonight. Everyone’s coming in.” He glances up, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Feeling lucky?”
Am I feeling lucky? I ponder the question, then shrug, anxious to move on before my mind takes a psychological journey that wanders into crazy town. “Sure. Give me ten quick picks. It draws tonight?”
“Yep. At ten. The display in the window’ll show the numbers, if you’re in the area that late.” He sniffs loudly, a day’s worth of snot sucking through his nose, then rips off a ticket and drops it on the counter, counting out my change on top of it. “Good luck.”
“Thanks.” I gingerly scoop up my haul and step out, the burn of the door’s cold metal delighting my fingers. I nod cheerily to JitterBoy and step off the curb, quickening my steps as I cross the street. Almost home. I inhale deeply, wanting to remember this. The roll and pitch of concrete underneath my shoes. The whip of hair across my face as I cross the street. The numb sensation under my palm, the soda too cold to hold, yet nowhere else to put it. Ten steps. Five steps. Three. One. I juggle items and pull on the door, the air inside only slightly warmer, my jog up the stairs increasing into a run as I worry about my ice cream.
I don’t need to worry. It is perfect when I finally open the wrapper. When I sit on the windowsill and bite into ice cream bliss, the crisp crack of an opened can of soda the perfect accompaniment. I sit there until my Snickers is gone and night has fully fallen, the lotto window display blinking happily at me. Saturday night. Maybe this could be a ritual. Saturday ice cream and soda snack. Buy a lotto ticket and spend the evening off camera. My end-of-week celebration of non-violence.
I stand, chug the rest of the soda, and toss the can. Then I head back to the lights. Time to work.
At ten forty-five, in between chats, I wander back to that window. Pick up my jeans and fish my ticket out of their pocket. Watch the scrolling marquee and verify that, out of ten quick picks, I have not one winner. Not two dollars, not two hundred million. Better luck next time. Maybe next week. I did it, despite my hiccup. I proved that I can handle it.