The Old Weird South
Page 28
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“Holy shit,” says the kid behind the counter as I limp toward the drinks along the wall. I wrench open the cooler door and fall against it, my hands bloody and flailing, knocking over bottled water and fruit juice. I hear my own voice yelling in English, in Spanish. I hear the click of the security locks on the door. The kid must have hit the button under the counter, the one clerks use to lock the doors during a robbery. This won’t stop the Californians, but it might slow them down. I try to tell this kid not to call the police, tell him that the Californians are above the law and none of us are safe here. There is no hole here in this Texaco juice cooler, only rows of Minute Maid. I collapse. I see the kid running toward me. In one hand, he brandishes a gun and, in another, a first-aid kit. When he sees my ruined foot, he squats down beside me, laying the gun on the floor, and opens the case. He’s tying a tourniquet over my left ankle. I tell him not to. I try to tell him we need to leave and leave now.
“Don’t worry, I have first-aid training,” he says, then something about me being okay and him being a volunteer EMT.
“I’m the Joe Montana of gently tossed orange juice,” I say, surprised by the calmness in my voice. I hear sirens in the distance. I tell this kid we are doomed.