Blog 11

It’s a Tuesday. The clock reads 10:31. It doesn’t feel that late to me. Summer nights always seem to go on forever with no clear time marking the difference between night and day. The sun may be down, but right now I’ve never felt more alive. Sitting in the car I can see the old Uni-Mart street.

As a kid my best friends Nolan, Chris, and I used to ride our bicycles there from home. We’d always get the same thing, a blue slushy from the fat lady behind the counter. I remember sitting on that old wooden bench out front with my two best friends, the wood smooth and warped from years of being sat on. Things were simpler back then, as kids you don’t understand what it means to be poor, to be lower class, what it means to live paycheck to paycheck.

A lot has changed since we were kids. Chris moved off to the west coast to try and become a musician. Nolan and I used to keep in touch with him but he stopped calling back. Nolan and I both started working in the car industry straight out of high school. But after the financial crisis back in ’08 the whole town seems to be dead. When the GM plant closed nearly the entire town fell apart, everyone was and still is looking for work, Nolan and myself included.

The Uni-Mart used to be such a happy place to be. Now it’s all dirty and dingy. This whole town is dirty now. I hate dirt. Half the neon lights on the outside are burnt out, the sidewalk cracks are filled with cigarette buds, and there’s even duct tape on two of the windows holding together broken glass. This town isn’t what it used to be.

I look over at Nolan in the driver’s seat. The look on his face tells me he’s thinking the same things I am. “You ready to do this?” I ask.

“Yeah.” Nolan never really had a way with words. The clock reads 10:34. We throw on our masks, grab our hand guns and slam the car doors behind us. The air is warm.

10:36. we jump back into the front seats of the old rusted Buick Lesabre. The reinforced hub caps on the side the only part of it not showing signs of rust and old age. This used to be a Sheriff’s car. Nolan floors it, smoke and the piercing sound of screeching tires fill the air. I take the bag of cash clutched in my left hand and shove it in the glove box. Driving off into the warm summer’s night I take a sip of the unnaturally blue slushy I hold in my right hand, I can’t help but think, some habits are hard to break.