Buying Tobacco

Sometimes I feel like the big, strong man and at other times I am the meek child, like today when I purchased tobacco at a gas station, a fourteen-year-old awkward. The woman with unfortunate fading beauty behind the register chatted with a tanned middle-aged man who wore a yellow button-down shirt and beige slacks, as I headed toward the counter, preparing to ask for my drugs. Felt strange interrupting their conversation, and I could not decide if their exuberance was natural or just some odd social play that they played, playing the same roles day after day. Their topic of conversation I cannot recall, but I do remember the man saying something as he was about to walk out the door into a cloud of exhaust and the fresh breeze of early spring, about getting kicked in the ass or getting something stuffed up there. The clerk forced some surprised snickers, accompanied by a deep breath, a hand to her chest, and a bashful “oh”. Mechanically, I showed her my id, swiped my credit card, and put the tobacco into the pocket of my cargo shorts, after she had handed it to me, and went outside ready to bike down the sun filled streets.