I was wondering what kind of person comes to a bodega at three in the morning and ask for a pickle with cheez-wiz on it. I thought this until one night sitting on the couch I couldn’t resist the thought. I walked down my block and continued to walk. I refused to go to a bodega that I might return to. I did not want to be labeled as the three o’clock pickle with cheez-wiz kid. So, I continued to walk. Zig-zagging in the quiet streets until I reached a secluded block that I never imagined I’d return to. I saw the lonely bodega with its neon light giving the only hint of life in area. I walked to the ‘bullet-proof’ glass with a revolving turntable and placed my order.
The guy looked tired. The bags under his eyes had wrinkles of their own. The blood shot eyes left little contrast to the red lids underneath them. He had a few stray nose hairs in his left nostril. A cliché mustard stain was placed above his right nipple on a closer to grey wife beater. He did not look amused by my order. I caught this apprehension by him asking me to repeat it. He had heard me correctly the first time, I’m sure. It was the only moment where life came from him.
I played in this amusement and candidly said, “One pickle sir…with cheez-wiz.”
He threw his phone on the counter and wobbled over to the deli counter. I saw a forty and a littered ashtray with one still burning. I am the person that orders a pickle with cheez-wiz on it.
M.F. Lynch 