E.B.T​​

 

Johnny Boy pedaled his sister’s mountain bike to the Kroger at East 10th Street and Euclid Avenue, where after securing the bike with a padlock, he lingered near the entrance, feeling a rush of air conditioning each time the glass doors parted. 
 

The harsh midday sun glared off the cars. Beads of sweat rolled down Johnny Boy's back. Amid the waves of liquid heat that rose from the asphalt like dancing mirages, he watched as a pristine Cadillac with a canvas top and whitewall tires pulled into a nearby space. After a moment, ​the driver, a lean grey-haired black man stepped out into the parking lot, pressing a key fob to arm the car alarm.

 

He wore a khaki suit, with a white pocket square and a carnation pinned to the lapel. While the well-dressed man carried himself upright and appeared strong, he walked with a slight limp: an old football injury, Johnny Boy imagined. 

​

"Hey there," Johnny Boy said as the man approached. 

​

“What’s good with you?” the man said, stopping to dab at his head with a handkerchief. 

​

“Want to buy some food stamps? One dollar cash for every two dollars you spend on food?”

​​

“I don’t see any reason why not," the man said. "I don't mind helping you out. Got a Sunday afternoon cook out today with my daughter and grandkids. Definitely need some potato salad. The mustard kind. We all love potato salad.”

 

The man took a shopping cart that had been abandoned at the curb.  He either didn't notice or didn't care that the back wheel wobbled, causing the cart to veer to the right.

 

“Maybe we should do some coleslaw and baked beans, as well. You can never have too many sides, you know?”

 

​“Absolutely,” Johnny Boy said, as they entered the grocery.

​

​“The grandkids love playing in the sprinkler, too," the man said. "They’re easily amused and that’s not a bad thing."

 

​​Johny Boy wore a homemade tie-dyed t-shirt and counterfeit Nike Air Force Ones that he'd bought on Temu.

 

He was a high school drop out, and now, in his late twenties, he'd grown tired of selling weed. He just needed to make ends meet until he figured something else out.

​

​A couple was bickering in the liquor isle.

 

The checkout lines were long, the cashiers flattened by monotony.

​

“If its cool, I’ll just hang back until you're ready," Johnny Boy said, leaning against the Hoosier Lottery vending machine.

​

“Sounds good, young man.”

​

Then as the man disappeared into the produce section, Johnny Boy spotted a quarter and a few pennies at the base of the Coin Star machine. And as he bent to pick up the coins, he noticed a folded-up piece of lined notebook paper.

 

It was a hand-written grocery list.

 

- Orange juice

- Svedka

- Tums, Prilosec

- Newports

- Mucinex

- Bologna, bread

- Vitamins

- Hot sauce

- Phone card
 

And then, beneath the shopping list, there was a scribble that read:

 

The most painful phone calls are those that go unreturned.

 

The list felt important, an artifact, a peice of human detritus. Cast off like skin cells, a haunting.

​

And so he read it again, studying the handwriting, imagining, before carefully folding it into his pocket. 

​

A toddler dressed in a Shrek T-shirt and Crocs cried as his mother pulled him by his arm. He began shreiking, louder, his face wet with tears, whining, "but I want a squirt gun!"

 

"You ain't gettin' no goddamn squirt gun," the mother said, scooping him up and putting him in the grocery cart. 

 

Johnny Boy checked his phone. No longer selling weed, it was as if he'd disappeared.

 

As if he no longer existed in the minds of others'.

​

He thought of high school. How he'd stolen two slide-scales from the chemistry lab and traded them to Big Jim, a local pot dealer, for three ounces that he then bagged-up and flipped to his neighbors and classmates. 

​

Big Jim, he remembered, was interested in science, insofar as it pertained to marjuaina. Choking and hacking, he'd go on and on, saying, "its the cannabinoids man."

​

Big Jim was also quick to advise others on their civil liberties, saying "if he glove box and trunk are locked, they'll need a warrant for that." A piece of street wisdom that, Johnny Boy was sure had been gleaned from the Jay-Z song, 99 Problems.

​

And then, he let his mind spiral, his thoughts circling, an Ouroboros, an emerging emptiness. 

​

“Hey, young man! Over here! Hey, you, young man, I'm about to check out!" 

​

It was the well-dressed man from the parking lot. 

 

Johnny Boy joined the man in line and, once at the register, he swiped his EBT card. He'd made the pin 5050, something he'd remember as it was a reference to the skateboard trick, the 50-50 grind. 

​

"I appreciate you," Johnny Boy.

​

After the groceries were bagged, the man then handed Johnny Boy several crisp bills.

 

​“So, I didn’t notice," Johnny Boy said as they exited the grocery. "Did you get those sides you were talking about?”

 

“You're damn right I did,” the man said. "We all love potato salad. That's a must."

​

“Good," Johnny Boy said. "You can never have too many sides.”

​

And as the two emerged, squinting into the scalding sun, for a moment, Johnny Boy wished the man would invite him to the cook out.

 

Potato Salad sounded good, as did coleslaw and baked beans. But more than anything, Johnny Boy just wanted to be a part of something.