“This is a Krendal’s All-American Slam. It may vary slightly from the competition’s meal of the same name,” Mr. Krendal said. “When the kind people at Denny’s stole the name from my menu, they did not take the time to read the description. I had a similar problem with the people from McDonald’s. For nearly a year, I told them a Big Mac was supposed to be a bowl of pasta and cheese with bacon on top, but they completely ignored me. In my day, corporate theft of ideas meant something. People take no pride in their thievery anymore.”
Krendal ruffled my hair and went back to the kitchen, leaving me to eat. I always asked for a chocolate shake. He never gave me one. He insisted people were not meant to ingest all that sugar, and water was better for me, particularly my teeth. At fifty-eight years old, he had no cavities. He was also quick to point out he’d never drank chocolate shakes.
I made quick work of the chicken sandwich and fries. The meal was delicious.
Auntie Jo fluttered around the diner as I ate. She smiled, too. I watched as she put on her best smile whenever she faced a customer. I also saw that same smile drop away the minute she turned her back on them. She didn’t much want to be here.
I was about to pack up and go back to our apartment when she dropped four dollars on the corner of my table. “I turned three tables just to get enough for some cigs. Tips are horrible today. This better turn around fast. Can you be a dear and run next door and get me two packs of Red 100s? You can keep the change.”
I wanted to say no. Auntie Jo smoked too much. This morning, she coughed for nearly five minutes straight before she even got out of bed.
If I didn’t go, she’d just buy them on her break, then she’d blame me for any lost tips while she was gone.
Snatching up the money, I started for the door. “Be right back.”
3
The sky churned with gray clouds tipped in white, and the air felt damp. It hadn’t rained yet today, but I’d be willing to bet that it would. In November in Pittsburgh, that was a pretty safe bet, not one a local would take the other side of, that’s for sure. Considering it was nearly noon, the sun should be high in the sky. Instead, I think it departed for Florida, leaving nothing but a dim bulb as replacement.
The Corner Mart grocery sat two doors down from Krendal’s on the same side of the street, so I didn’t have to cross traffic. The store took up the first floor of a wedge-shaped building, narrow at the front and widening further back, no doubt built to accommodate the odd angle of the street which had been built in such a way to accommodate the odd angle of the large hill upon which our entire block sat. Pittsburgh was not known for sprawling flatlands, only odd angles. Even the floors of our apartment dropped off at enough of an incline to propel my Matchbox cars from one end of the kitchen to the other without any help from me.
The door to the grocery triggered an electronic chime before swinging shut behind me. Although the front of the store had two large windows beside the door, every available inch of glass was covered with posters, signs, and advertisements for various items—everything from milk to beer to cigarettes and each line punctuated with an exclamation mark because a sign reading $1.25 CIGARETTES! was far better than one with only $1.25 CIGARETTES. There were corner groceries everywhere you turned in this city, and only the ones with the largest selection of exclamation marks survived.
I didn’t recognize the man behind the counter with thinning black hair and a plaid shirt about two sizes too small. He greeted me with a nod and lowered his copy of thePittsburgh Post-Gazette. The Steelers beat the Oilers yesterday, thirty to seven—the third win in a row. “What can I get for you, kid?”
The counter was a bit tall for me, but it felt a little shorter than the last time I was in here. I reached up and slid the four dollar bills as close to the man as I could. “Two packs of Marlboro Red 100s, please.”
His brow furrowed, and he returned to the newspaper, shaking his head. “You know I can’t sell them to you.”
“Why not?”
He rolled his eyes toward the sign that said YOU MUST BE 18 YEARS OLD TO PURCHASE TOBACCO PRODUCTS. This sign had no exclamation mark.
“They’re not for me, they’re for my aunt.”
“Who’s your aunt?”
“Josephine Gargery. She’s working and can’t come down here right now.”
“Jo…from Krendal’s?”
I nodded.
“And they’re not for you? You’re not going to go around the corner and fire these up with your friends?”
“Smoking is disgusting. I’d never smoke. Mr. Cougin knows me. I come in here a lot.”
“Mr. Cougin isn’t working today.”
“Isn’t he the owner, though? If he is okay with selling cigarettes to me, then you should be able to sell them to me, too, right? If you don’t, then Auntie Jo will have to leave work to come over here. If that happens, she’s gonna be mad, probably Mr. Krendal, too. Then both of them are liable to complain to Mr. Cougin, and he’s going to take it out on you. All of that can be avoided if you just sell them to me. I don’t much like confrontation, and I imagine you don’t, either. Besides, I’m not a narc. I’m one of the good guys.”
He bit at the inside of his cheek, glanced down at the corner of his newspaper as if someone printed the answer directly under the Steeler win, then blew out a breath and pulled two packs of cigarettes down from the overhead rack. “Nobody likes confrontation.”
“Nope,” I agreed. “Nobody.”
He handed back a dollar and thirty-eight cents with the cigarettes.
“Thank you.” I took the change and the cigarettes and headed for the the comic rack at the back of the store. I already owned most of the good ones, but there was one in particular I had my eye on:Supermanannual volume one, number eleven. I found it when I was in here on Tuesday, but I only had seventy-three cents with me, not enough to cover the steep dollar and twenty-five cent price tag on this particular book, so I hid it behindStrawberry Shortcakenumber four on the top shelf, someplace no self-respecting comic lover would go, and hoped it would be there when I came back. It was, and I snatched it down. I was flipping through the book, when the chime above the store’s front door went off. I barely heard the muffled sounds of traffic and the shuffle of feet before the door closed again.
