growling that I’ve only ever felt since I came to L.A. The empty inside you expands like it’s an actual thing instead of just a space; then it pushes against you from the inside, steady, till it starts to hurt. The bubbles turn to rocks, holding your insides apart, and after a while you can’t tell the difference between too full and too empty. You don’t feel what’s going on inside you anymore, just that something’s wrong. And even if you eat, it doesn’t go away for hours.
I’ve been trying to save my buck seventy-three for an emergency, but I’m starting to really need food and my throat’s so dry it’s sticking to itself. I can’t afford the taco stands so I walk west on Santa Monica, knowing eventually I’ll hit a 7-Eleven, where microwave burritos are eighty-nine cents and I can get a soda too. Once my stomach is calm I’ll be able to think; then maybe I can stick out my thumb like in the movies and some old guy will take pity on my plight and drive me back to Venice.
By the time I push through the door, past the magazine racks full of Variety and Hollywood Reporter , I’m dizzy enough that it’s hard to find my way around the store. I know burritos are always back by the Big Gulps, but my eyes are blurry and sped-up enough that I go the wrong way and brush into a tower of chips. The guy at the counter’s eyes flick up from People magazine as soon as I knock into the chip bags, and they stay on me. When I finally find my way through the plastic junk food maze, he hollers back at me to pay before I microwave and I have to say “What?” twice before I understand because he’s from Pakistan or someplace. I feel stupid for not deciphering his accent, like I might offend him; my face gets hot and I know it’s turning pink. I bring the burrito up to the counter and a big Mountain Dew for caffeine. I can’t look at him but I can tell his eyes are still stuck to my face and hands. They dart back and forth as I count out my change on the scuffed white Formica.
He rings me up and it comes out to a dollar ninety-three. Even before I’m done counting I know I don’t have it, but I keep sliding nickels and dimes across from one hand to the other so I can act like it’s a surprise. Finally I get to the end and go “Oh shit!” and look up and blink like Oops, I forgot the rest of my money in the car or something. He just looks at me and says “One dollar ninety-three cents.”
“I’m short. Twenty cents. Can I owe you?” I say and make my eyes as wide as I can without twitching.
“One dollar ninety-three cents,” he says.
“Come on,” I go. It’s not like it’s going to kill him. There are spots in front of everything and I’m starting to feel like I need to eat like right now .
“Sorry.” He shrugs.
“Come on!” I say. “It’s twenty cents!” He looks at me like a concrete wall and raises his eyebrows. I wait for him to answer.
“Sorry,” he goes again, in the exact same identical monotone as before.
I’ve never gotten mad at a stranger or especially a grown-up, but the empty in my stomach has spread to my head. “It’s twenty fucking cents!” I go. “I’m hungry! Just let me have it!” and I’m kind of yelling.
“Please quiet down, sir,” he tells me and his voice is like a rock.
“Don’t call me fucking sir!” I yell louder, and I can feel hot tears rolling down the dry of my cheeks and all of a sudden my nose is full of snot. The guy and the counter and the cigarettes and the hot-dog machine on the counter all go blurry and I can’t even read the red numbers on the register anymore; I’m just crying and swearing and I don’t even know why or what I’m saying.
Then the guy is around on my side of the counter and he’s got his big hand in the middle of my back, covering my spine, and his spread-out fingers reach almost across both my shoulder blades. My bones feel like a bird beneath his hand and I feel like if I fell back it’d catch me except he’s
I’ve been trying to save my buck seventy-three for an emergency, but I’m starting to really need food and my throat’s so dry it’s sticking to itself. I can’t afford the taco stands so I walk west on Santa Monica, knowing eventually I’ll hit a 7-Eleven, where microwave burritos are eighty-nine cents and I can get a soda too. Once my stomach is calm I’ll be able to think; then maybe I can stick out my thumb like in the movies and some old guy will take pity on my plight and drive me back to Venice.
By the time I push through the door, past the magazine racks full of Variety and Hollywood Reporter , I’m dizzy enough that it’s hard to find my way around the store. I know burritos are always back by the Big Gulps, but my eyes are blurry and sped-up enough that I go the wrong way and brush into a tower of chips. The guy at the counter’s eyes flick up from People magazine as soon as I knock into the chip bags, and they stay on me. When I finally find my way through the plastic junk food maze, he hollers back at me to pay before I microwave and I have to say “What?” twice before I understand because he’s from Pakistan or someplace. I feel stupid for not deciphering his accent, like I might offend him; my face gets hot and I know it’s turning pink. I bring the burrito up to the counter and a big Mountain Dew for caffeine. I can’t look at him but I can tell his eyes are still stuck to my face and hands. They dart back and forth as I count out my change on the scuffed white Formica.
He rings me up and it comes out to a dollar ninety-three. Even before I’m done counting I know I don’t have it, but I keep sliding nickels and dimes across from one hand to the other so I can act like it’s a surprise. Finally I get to the end and go “Oh shit!” and look up and blink like Oops, I forgot the rest of my money in the car or something. He just looks at me and says “One dollar ninety-three cents.”
“I’m short. Twenty cents. Can I owe you?” I say and make my eyes as wide as I can without twitching.
“One dollar ninety-three cents,” he says.
“Come on,” I go. It’s not like it’s going to kill him. There are spots in front of everything and I’m starting to feel like I need to eat like right now .
“Sorry.” He shrugs.
“Come on!” I say. “It’s twenty cents!” He looks at me like a concrete wall and raises his eyebrows. I wait for him to answer.
“Sorry,” he goes again, in the exact same identical monotone as before.
I’ve never gotten mad at a stranger or especially a grown-up, but the empty in my stomach has spread to my head. “It’s twenty fucking cents!” I go. “I’m hungry! Just let me have it!” and I’m kind of yelling.
“Please quiet down, sir,” he tells me and his voice is like a rock.
“Don’t call me fucking sir!” I yell louder, and I can feel hot tears rolling down the dry of my cheeks and all of a sudden my nose is full of snot. The guy and the counter and the cigarettes and the hot-dog machine on the counter all go blurry and I can’t even read the red numbers on the register anymore; I’m just crying and swearing and I don’t even know why or what I’m saying.
Then the guy is around on my side of the counter and he’s got his big hand in the middle of my back, covering my spine, and his spread-out fingers reach almost across both my shoulder blades. My bones feel like a bird beneath his hand and I feel like if I fell back it’d catch me except he’s
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