It’s a brick haven of vice, an open sore in an otherwise scabbed over American ghetto. Snickers, Newports, Phillies, Old English, Monster, Hennessy, Coca-Cola, Lays – all for sale. It’s a classic, all-American liquor store, open 24/7. Inside, the speckled floor tiles are chipped; the smell damp and musty. The cashier looks distracted. The long bags under his eyes tell stories of their own.
In the clear glass of the fridge door, you can see your warped reflection. It’s like looking into a carnival mirror. Best to grab your beer and go.
Outside, bikes rest against the front of the building, red, white, and blue. A group of kids, maybe 12 or 13 years old, count the loose change and crumpled dollar bills in their pockets on the sidewalk, weeds growing through the cracks in the cement. A women in booty shorts and a white cami struts up to the…
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