The rat store

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The smell of closed air and fatty food is preserved in the store. From outside you can’t feel a thing, but once you enter it floods your nostrils. I don’t mind the smell — I’ve actually grown fond of it, since I’m here every night during the week and some weekends too. I have no choice. I come here because nothing else is open on my way home. Most places shut their neons off at this hour.

I reach the fridges at the back of the store and grab a can of coke. I hate when it’s sticky. It feels like every night the can is sticky — one breaks and now all of them are fucked. And of course the only employee isn’t paid enough to care. I wonder if he washes his hands after restocking, or just waits for the stickiness to fade.

I reach the counter and ask for a pack of cigarettes. I notice the fluorescent light fixture is louder than the boom-box radio. Usually he listens to the news at this hour, but today it’s some commentary about a tennis match. I never thought he’d be the kind of guy who likes tennis. Or sports in general. I never asked. Before I pay, he tells me the hot-dog will take longer today — the grill has problems. He doesn’t ask what I want. He already knows.

I pay and step out front for a smoke while I wait.

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The fog is thicker than I thought. The building across the street is gone, or might as well be — just a smear of darker grey where it should be. Streetlights are hollow circles. Headlights too, when a car passes.

I crack open the coke and light a cigarette. Besides the occasional car, I can only hear the neon sign. The city looks dirtier at this hour — trashcans overflowing, empty bottles, cigarette butts. Has it always been like this? Even during the day? I never noticed.

I finish the cigarette and toss it in the plastic cup next to the others. No ashtrays at convenience stores. Why would there be — emptying and cleaning them is too much work. Cups are easier.

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The smell hits again, stronger now after the cold air. Inside it’s the same fluorescent buzz, the same tennis commentary. Like the store paused while I was out.

Mustard? Ketchup? Sure, all of it. I’ve never seen him wear gloves, but at this hour I don’t care. I’ve been here for years and nothing’s happened to me, so why complain.

I take my hot-dog. The magazine rack catches my eye — same editions as last week, same crosswords. I ask him if it’s new. No, he tells me. Had him for a while. His hand settles in his lap. He sits back in the old office chair.

I leave. He doesn’t know I’ve seen his friend. I see him every night on my way out. Sometimes I wonder if it’s the same one. Other times I wonder if it’s for sale.