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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Non-Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: March 13, 2017

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Submitted: March 13, 2017



The discount liquor shop looks its advertisements from the outside, with a lighted sign and larger posters hopefully declaring discount cigarettes and twelve packs of beer. Inside, though the shop is dark like composted earth, and both the owner and his brother, Eastern Indians, seem to maintain the same indifference as worms that seem surprised when they award customers. There is a black man who steps up to the counter and buys a couple of individual cigarettes with some spare change, burrowing through the earth of another human.

The shop seems caked with dust that even shows in the owner’s dark eyes and the squinting darker eyes of his sibling, and that does nothing to allay the dismal atmosphere of the shop. A money yearning black woman steps, buying two lottery tickets. He voice is flat and jovial at the same time, her excitement driving the everyday speech. She discovers herself a looser. She wishes for the prize and carries the winning barter of gambling addiction from the shop.

Anybody might pick up parephenalia from under the wonder of the glass counter to the side to smoke pot or something nastier and follow a psychological unhappy sideline into the high, feeling only weird when it wears down.There is the pornography of need answered next to the door. Each customer hoping on the gritty floor of the shop to find a moment of light, a few sick minutes of happiness to get them further along. Each takes the meaningless reward they have bought out the door and into their day.

There are refrigerated beer cases shoddily built into the wall where a fourty ounce or a case can be wistfully pulled from behind the glass, a potential gew gaw for fun before the minor crash or the major pass-out. Sam rings up the beer at the counter with a disgruntled respect for the alcohol in the container and the beer is carried from the unintentionally threatening shop into the light, a portion of dirty holy water. It is a shop where hopelessness allays hopelessness and where hunched before the counter, customers and patrons and counter persons alike fail to recognize their own humanity in amking the addicts feel good enough for a return trip.. And so the blindness of worms in the dirt tunnels continues on.

© Copyright 2019 Hans Sigurd Lillegard. All rights reserved.

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