Memory---sneak preview of my book!

ONE

We’re all going to die out here!

A man had been yelling that in front of the Major Dollar. He didn’t look homeless or crazy. No, his clothes were decent. A baby stroller was next to him. Was it his? If the yelling man lost his shit what would happen to that baby?

We’re all going to die out here!

A few feet away another man gripped the strap of a dark green duffel bag. He was watching the yelling man, trying to figure out if he should check on the baby--

No. There is nothing you can do. If you stay out here you will die.

The man with the duffel walked into the Major Dollar. A balding man with a large mustache was going through his billfold and shaking his head. He was thin and smelled like mint and cheap laundry soap.

“Hey! Bag man!”

The girl at the register was pointing at a large sign behind her head: PLEASE CHECK BAGS. She didn’t look angry, more bored or tired from the heat. The man with the duffel didn’t want his bag out of his sight but the girl looked too apathetic to mess with stuff.

The clerk traded his bag for a plastic spoon with “9” scrawled on it in fading ink. He put the spoon in his pocket and looked out the window at the parking lot. Were there any familiar cars out there?

The man was pretty sure there weren’t but the heat had been fucking with his usual sharpness.

The Major Dollar smelled like plastic and failing deodorant and things spoiling in the walk-in coolers. The man checked his phone---a text was overdue, the text that would rescue him from the music coming through a blown speaker and the fretful mustache man shaking his head as he wandered the aisles.

How long did he have before there was a problem? Ten minutes? Five? Air conditioning was a precious commodity and he wasn’t a customer, just a tourist looking for sanctuary. A guard turned down the aisle he occupied. She was over six feet tall and easily two hundred and fifty pounds. The cheap button down shirt the guard wore was too small and discolored with sweat. Over one breast was a sticker with “Security” written on it. The guard was carrying a heavy looking wooden pole. After a moment, the man realized it was a rod for hanging clothes on; the Major Dollar clearly did not have the budget for an armed guard. The woman with the closet rod didn’t break eye contact as she closed the distance between them, getting close enough for him to see that her face was shiny with sweat; it had to be close to ninety in the Major Dollar.

“If you ain’t buyin’, you leavin’!”

He nodded and bent down to pick up an abandoned basket, brandishing it for good effect. The guard nodded and went off to harass other potential moochers of the Major Dollar’s iffy air-conditioning. Even after a couple of minutes of adjustment the smell of things spoiling in the coolers was intense: Pints of milk. Frozen pizzas that would fit in a coffee cup ring. Eighth pounds of greenish beef. The guard had doubled back to make sure that the man was making use of the basket that had been held up. Understanding his role, he looked down at the merchandise on the closest shelf: A two ounce bottle of water. A half ounce bag of peanuts. A package with four Triscuits in it. He threw two bottles of water in the basket. It would probably come in handy.

Where was that text? His ride was ten minutes overdue. How long could he prowl the aisles of the Major Dollar before the guard with the stained shirt and closet rod kicked him out? What then? How long could he last outside? Where would he go? Was there any place safe for him, anywhere he wouldn’t be tracked down?

If you ain’t buyin’, you leavin’.

The guard’s voice the next aisle over. A mewling man’s voice claimed that he was trying to choose between a pack of two mini-donuts or a bag with five pretzels in it. It had to be Fretful Mustache man; it certainly seemed the perfect voice for him. Knowing his own time was limited, the man pulled his phone out to make sure the volume was on.

“If you ain’t buyin’, you leavin’!”

Maybe that’s all the guard could say, a mute that had been taught to utter five words. Perhaps Major Dollar had a training school for them: How to glower and brandish closet rods. Learning one phrase that fits every occasion.

The text came in. He took his basket up to the counter and bought his two bottles of water. Was there even two dollars remaining in his account? The transaction was approved.

“You need a bag for them?”

The clerk looked nervous. Major Dollar was so cheap they probably dressed down clerks for every bag they gave out. The man shook his head as he handed over the plastic spoon with “9” written on it. The clerk looked around at her feet and pulled up his duffell with some effort.

“It’s heavy.”

He took it from her without acknowledging her comment, stuck the bottles of water in a side pocket, and left the store. In the outer area where they kept the shopping carts it was over a hundred. Beyond the exterior doors---

The man prepared himself but it wasn’t enough. Even after fifteen minutes of Major Dollar’s iffy air-conditioning the late morning heat was stunning; it reminded him of sticking your head in an oven when making sure something is cooked. A silver crossover sort of car was parked in a handicapped space with the flashers on. Was that it? It looked small...and old. There were three people inside. Maybe it was for someone else---

The car honked. The man staggered twenty feet to the right rear door. There weren’t any brand or model designations on the car but it looked like a Hyundai Santa Fe. The car honked again. He opened the right rear door as the text instructed and dropped in. The driver was holding her hand out for his phone. She had a hard face and blonde hair pulled back in a strict ponytail with a cap on top. Las Vegas Gamblers. Something about that made the man uncomfortable; he didn’t want gamble to play a role in their journey. The driver handed the phone back. The fan was roaring beside her but it had to be in the eighties in the car. Not Major Dollar hot but not much better.

“Is there something wrong with the air conditioner?”

The driver didn’t respond until they were backed out of the space.

“It’s 132 degrees.”

She put the car in drive. The engine revved but the car didn’t move.

“Again?”

A man’s voice behind him. The new passenger didn’t look back, he was watching the woman behind the wheel shift from drive to neutral and then back to drive trying to get the transmission to work. After a few moments of shifting the gears did what they were supposed to do and the Hyundai lurched out of the Major Dollar parking lot with a puff of dark smoke.

==Taken with permission from Memory (is a Place Where We Burn)

(C) 2021 Izaak David Diggs