Clara stood in front of the dairy cabinet, while Sol hung back, contemplating her. She had the body of a movie star from the 1940s, curvaceous and comfortable-looking. When he’d flown out to Houston for a visit, he had hoped that maybe they would wind up sleeping together. He knew now that it wasn’t going to happen, because it was obvious that he was getting on her nerves. But he was still having a reasonably good time, so it didn’t matter that much.

They were there for milk. They could choose between 7/8 of a pint, 7/8 of a quart, or 7/8 of a gallon. “That’s interesting,” said Sol. Clara looked at him quizzically, with a slight air of impatience. Sol went on: “It’s just that in New York, they sell full pints, quarts and gallons, and also half-gallons.” Now there was more than just a slight air. “I’m not complaining; it’s just interesting. Regional differences. You know?” Whether she did or didn’t know, she wasn’t saying. She selected 7/8 of a gallon of whole milk, and walked directly to the end of a line of about ten people, not looking back. Sol followed.

They waited in silence for a bit, and then Sol mentioned that he liked Clara’s skirt, that the light pastels really flattered her light complexion. She smiled, almost in spite of herself, and graciously thanked him for the complement. She responded with an apology for the cloudiness of the afternoon, and a wish that it would clear up by dark, so they would be able to see the full night sky. They reached the head of the line. A gray haired man with extremely white, even teeth took the carton from them and put it in a brown paper bag. “Howdy, Clara,” he said.

“Howdy, Clem,” she replied. “This is my friend Sol from out East.”

“Howdy” said either Clem or Sol, and the other replied in the same way.

Clara was standing slightly closer to Sol when they waited in the second line. Sol didn’t say anything; he figured that things were working better when he was quiet. This line moved slower than the first, but they eventually got to the front. A 17 year old with skin that almost shone took the carton out of the bag, looked at it, pressed some buttons on the cash register, and put it back in. “Two fifty two, ma’am.”

They paid, and waited in the third line. Sol saw that this one led to a man in a chair. He had a pinched-in face, as if someone had taken a normal face made of putty, put their fingers in its nostrils, and gently pulled forward for a few minutes. He was wearing a dirty Astros T-shirt and a pair of blue tights with the convenience store’s logo on it. One by one, people were lying across his lap. His hand would move over their buttocks; they would jerk slightly, and then get up.

“What are we waiting for now?” asked Sol. Clara stared at him, the warmth fading from her face. “No, seriously. What’s happening to them?”

“They’re getting pricked. Duh.”

“Like, with a pin?”

“What else would someone get pricked with?”

“No, I mean that they don’t do this in New York.” She rolled her eyes. “Is this just a Houston thing? Or do they do this throughout Texas? Or the whole South?”

There were five people in front of them now. “How the hell would I know? I’m not a big world-travelling New Yorker. I haven’t seen them use steel pins in Paris and gold pins in London. I couldn’t tell you if they use rusty needles in Russia or France. Next time my company sends me all over the fucking place, I’ll do a study for you. Jesus.”

Three people. “Do they do this in every store?”

“Duh.”

“I mean, if you go to a restaurant, do you get pricked?”

“You buy stuff in a restaurant, right? So, obviously.”

Two people. “...What if you and your family fill up your car at a gas station? Does everyone get it?”

“Whoever gets out of the car. What... do they go out TO your car in New York?”

“Well, actually...”

It was their turn now. The cone-faced guy made eye contact with Sol so he stepped forward. He leaned over his lap, there was a sharp pain in his left butt-cheek, and he stood up. Nobody else had thanked or tipped the pin-attendant, so Sol didn’t either.

Clara stepped forward, and bent over. The jabber put his hands on her buttocks to adjust her position. He didn’t remove them - he pressed her tight against his groin and thrust upward once, twice, thrice. The people in line looked a little angry. He stuck the pin all the way into her left cheek, causing her to yell out. He wiggled it a little bit and smiled at her when she got up. She kept her eyes to the floor. There was a tiny red spot on the back of her skirt. She didn’t say anything aloud as she and Sol walked to the car, but he could easily read her lips. “Fucking bastard... Fucking bastard.”

“I can’t believe this!” Sol exclaimed. “That was ridiculous! There was no reason that we should have had to deal with this crap just to buy some milk. Do you know that if anybody ahead of us had hepatitis or god-forbid-AIDS, we would have been effectively inoculated with it? I’m absolutely in shock. Why the hell do they-”

She whirled her head around and up, staring at him through angry tear-stained eyes. “Oh, shut up!  Nobody wants to hear how you do things in New York City.”

© 2000 by the Reverend Douglas James.

Share your opinions on this story
Back to Painless Endings
Go to the Painless Endings Guest Entry
Go to the Painless Endings archives