11:59:60

Chapter One

I walked out the door and onto the porch, down the steps, and onto the sunny sidewalk. It was still early in the day, not even noon yet, but by the time I got across the river to the shop it would be late enough to get in a store. I had about seven dollars, my license, and my library card in my wallet. Not much, nothing to worry about if I got jumped or anything. I guess. Maybe my license would be something to worry about. Then they, the group jumping me, would be able to recognize me again. They’d have my name, they’d know where to look for me by the zip code, they’d know too much. It’s dangerous. But all I want is a pack of incense.

In my skinny jeans and tight black shirt, I begin my walk to the other side of the river. It’s about 15 blocks to the bridge, then traffic. Also, boat traffic along the bridge. Worst shit ever. Have you ever tried to cross a bascule bridge in the summer? So many damn barges just have to come through. It’s awful. From the bridge, though, it’s only a few blocks to the first store I wanted to go to. I wanted to pick up some incense and a few combs.

Three blocks, and I already hear my street name being called.

“Hey, faggot. Going down to get yourself a dildo?” A blonde boy called out of a car with his group of friends, and then they speed up and drive away. It’s okay, though. It’s not like I’d do anything to them. What am I going to do? Scream at them? They’re big, they’re buff, they’re kind of hot. I’m too scared and skinny and wimpy to do that. I am the epitome of the term faggot. Thus, my street name. No one needs to know who I am, they just seem to know to call me that.

I get to the first store with ease, only being called the street name once. It’s about 11:30 and the store opens at noon, so I sit in front of the building on the sidewalk, under the awning in the shade. Jesus Christ, it’s hot. I look down at my phone to check any texts out of boredom, and of course there were none. So that’s great. I close my eyes and begin to just think for a little. I sometimes think too much, but sometimes I can’t think at all. In these thoughts that I think, I think that people think too much about things that need not to be thought of and think too little of things that need to be thought of. If that makes sense, congratulations. You’re in my mind.

    “Shit,” I muttered to myself. Sometimes muttering to myself makes me feel better.

    “Excuse me?” a woman with a thick, somewhere-from-Asia accent asked.

    “Oh, I’m sorry, ma’am,” I said to the woman, blushing and feeling slightly embarrassed.

    “It okay, I not offended. Do not use foul language in building, though. You offend my customer.” The woman answered. She was the woman that owned the store. I’ve never really been sure where she was from, but all I know is that she sells incense and black women hair products. So it’s good enough for me. I wonder if she meant customers, or just customer. Not many people went in to the store.

I first looked at the incense because they are what is closest to the door. If you look at something then go to the door, you look awfully suspicious. Even though I had no intentions of running out with anything, she already didn’t seem happy with having some teenager sitting in front of her store and cussing. So I’d just try to play it nice, no need to cause any trouble or anything. I picked up three packs of incense, and then went to look at combs. Mindlessly staring at them for about 10 minutes, I forgot what I was looking for. I picked up a round brush and two combs, and I still had a dollar left.

    “Is this all?” asked the woman.

    “Yes, please, ma’am.” I answered her. “Actually, do you have any tweezers as well?”

    “You do not see them? They right here!” she exclaimed, somewhat annoyed, then picked a pair out with her skinny, ugly fingers and placed them with my stuff. “That will be six-chenty-fo.”