The Lucky Mart
By Nicholas Nocketback

I remember being awakened by a garbage truck that, at 6:43, decided it would break down in front of our house. I could hear the gears grinding and the massive hood steam open then smash down on the steel frame. I was actually sleeping quite well considering I shared a room with my younger brother—bunk beds. The dream escapes me now, but it most likely had something to do with Cindy Crawford and Lamborghini’s—typical teenage reverie—then the goddamn BFI truck whining bloody hell. I was saturated with sweat; of course, living in Fresno in the summer, it reached eighty degrees by six. I wrenched myself up, pulled down on the shade and watched it recoil into its housing at the top of the window. It was fairly bright out already and there were two large men drinking cans of Tab, both sitting on the curb. One of the guys, a short Mexican man with a white towel over his head was eating a package of mini powdered donuts, the wrapper from which he threw on our lawn, ironic considering he was sitting in front of his ten ton mobile trash bin. I remember wondering if that’s what was in store for me in the future—wasting time working.
Thoughts don’t stick in your head long when you’re thirteen. After brushing my teeth and slapping my brother on the forehead, my way of saying wake up, sweetheart, I walked to the kitchen. We never had a traditional breakfast. My stepfather would leave for work at five and my mom around six, depending on if she found her keys or not. I scooped up some leftover toast and punctured a Capri-Sun. There were tiny pieces of confetti and wrapping paper ground into the brown, stained nap of the carpet. I told my mom I didn’t want a party; she never listened. I don’t need some superficial, phony-ass bash celebrating my first shitty thirteen years of existence. I always felt like an asshole while people sang at me and captured the nightmare on film.
Straddling my black Dyno, I ate the toast and finished my beverage while riding down the street to Kevin’s house. I rang the doorbell several times while knocking the Sir-Mix-A-Lot beat, My Posse’s on Broadway, on the door. Kevin unlatched the top lock of the security screen and I let myself in. He called me a faggot and went back to bed. I walked to the front room and turned on the TV. I loved Kevin’s because he had all the channels; his uncle had rigged some mammoth black box to their TV. At night we would watch movies that showed women having sex with each other, his mother was never home. After flipping through the roster, I finally settled on a History Channel special about James I of England who was originally James VI of Scotland. I was really the only kid in the neighborhood interested in history, or anything school related.
About forty minutes later, I was half way through the show, as well as a Totino’s pizza, when Kevin walked in. “You little dick, you eatin’ my pizza?”
He always got pissed off when I was eating at his house. I know he didn’t really care though because he would always tell me to get up and get it myself and stop being a lazy-ass. He was my best friend, I guess. He was four months older than me and had a shaved head with just a small patch of hair on top, like a furry yarmulke. My mom grounded me for a week when I cut mine like that. Even though I was bigger he would still pound me from time to time, for that I admired him.
I followed Kevin to his room; this is where we’d plan the next fourteen hours of our day. It was bigger than mine and he didn’t have to share with his brother. There were sundry trophies lining the shelves, collecting dust, and several Penthouse cutouts covered the various Beastie Boys and Metallica posters—priorities. This was truly an escape from my corny castle, inundated with Garfield paraphernalia and Star Wars curtains. After some discussion we decided to ride over to Olive and load up on some grapefruit. There was a mammoth tree on Olive and Fresno. It was in someone’s backyard but the colossal tree would sprinkle citrus a half block away, its limbs poured out into the street and scratched the tops of industrial trucks and vans. We picked up at least twenty five softball-sized grapefruits and filled a few Vons bags. We didn’t pick from the tree because they weren’t for eating. Kevin put a bag on each handle bar and I placed a bag on my lap. It made it incredibly hard to turn but the railroad tracks were only three blocks away.
The vacant tracks divided a long stretch, one-way traffic on each side. There wasn’t a place for vehicles to turn around for 150 yards. We made a pyramid of fruit next to the curb and waited. First up was a blue Camaro. Kevin pitched the first one, I followed his lead. The massive fruit landed on the hood of the car, not exploding, it made a dent. Mine fell short but the second effort hit the windshield and splattered, we cheered. The smell of citrus was refreshing. By the time Kevin launched the third one, the driver was on his brakes and we were on our bikes. From the opposite side we would watch the car speed by toward the intersection to chase us. As soon as he was within five yards we would cross the tracks, requiring another 150 yards of pursuit on his end. Customarily people would give up after a full 300 yards of NASCAR driving, some would get out of their cars while others would just curse us and keep going. We played this game of tag until someone would either flash a gun or shoot at us. That day it was four Asians in a white Celica. It only took one close miss from our launch pad before we heard the popping. That’s what they all sound like: pop, pop, pop. We peddled quickly but didn’t fatigue ourselves, this happened all the time.
Instead of heading home, we rode to Mike’s house incase we were followed. He was a sturdy Mexican with odd facial hair. It seemed he could grow a mustache but everything below his lip sprouted in sporadic patches. At twenty-one, he was the oldest of our friends on the block. He lived in a two bedroom house with his father, who I’d never seen physically. The inside of the house smelled of gasoline and oranges. On top of the TV, a small black and white Zenith, there was a large plastic bottle of Malasuerte tequila that always seemed full. There were many nights I swore never to touch it again. He had every window open in the house and it still felt like a sauna.
I plopped on the couch, a short black vinyl piece with a burgundy bed sheet covering the exposed stuffing. Kevin went into the bathroom and Mike sat in front of me on a purple beanbag chair, talking on a black cordless phone. In between us was a gray Producers milk crate that supported a large round piece of glass, on top of that was about a quarter pound of marijuana. Most of it was in a rectangle shaped brick. It was a dark green, light brown blend with many tiny orange hairs. Mike’s uncle drove a Ryder truck full of it to his house twice a month. He delivered it in empty gas cans and orange crates to shelter the smell. About half an ounce was broken up and divided into piles: one seeds, one stems, and one loose, crumbled flake. He pinched four or five small black seeds out of a handful of flake, his fingers steady. Manicuring a small pile, he gestured for me to open a cigar. I’d done this quite a few times and developed a very tidy system for doing so. I removed the cellophane wrapper and pressed my thumbs into the middle of the brown exterior. With four quick deft punctures I had cracked the outer leaf and emptied the tobacco filling into a small round trash bin next to me feet. It was then stuffed, licked and lit--within fifteen minutes all three of us were stuck to the black vinyl couch carcass.
I don’t remember exactly what we did after that, but for the next couple hours I felt like there was an invisible hand pressing down on me. Sweat poured from my forehead and the back of me knees. Time passed and Kevin fell asleep, Mike talked on the phone and lifted weights in front of the closet mirror. I ended up reading 35 pages of Hispanics in Hollywood: a Concise Encyclopedia. I couldn’t tell you what I read but I remember struggling through the verbiage and reading several pages twice. When Mike got off the phone we decided to go to the Lucky Mart for some food. Mike said that Titus was working and that he’d put his Stevie Wonder glasses on if we wanted to grab some grub.
The Lucky Mart was a food mart with two gas pumps in front; one of the pumps was permanently out of service, the other had yellow tape around the spout and handle. The store itself was a small white stucco shack with one large window in front. Much of the exterior had been painted and repainted and finally left as a canvass for vandals. The large window exhibited a pink neon King Cobra sign and a piece of spiral notepaper that
read Natural Ice twelve pack $6.99. The sting of icy conditioned air widened my eyes as I opened the door. Mike and Kevin went straight to the counter to greet Titus but I hovered over the Nestle ice cream display. The Good Humor and Dreyer’s bars looked vulnerable.
Titus was a black man in his mid thirties who worked at the Lucky Mart and bought weed from Mike. He wore brown Levi shorts and a white button up with blue pin stripes. On his left breast there was a yellow nametag that read Tito.
“What’s up with the nametag?” I said.
“Aw, they fucked up but it’s pretty close to my name. Besides, Tito was the coolest Jackson of ‘em all. Eh, check this out, though. You wanna hear a riddle?”
“I guess.”
“How are Michael Jackson and cheese wiz similar?”
I didn’t answer.
“They both come on little crackers.”
Titus was always telling stupid jokes and calling them riddles. He told us to grab what we wanted and park it behind the counter, out of sight from the customers. I grabbed a Choco Taco I’d been eyeing and a bag of Doritos. I finished them in seconds. We were all watching “In The Heat of The Night” on the mini TV, trapped in the dialogue and wrenching plot twists (in hind sight it was probably the weed that made it so enthralling). Kevin nursed a sixty-four ounce Pepsi and Mike alternated between a handful of granola and one of beef jerky chips, standard fair for a Tuesday morning. We didn’t hear the man come in, but we heard his request. He was a tall, thin white man of indeterminate age but looked weathered from the sun. I don’t remember his clothes, but he had on a Orchard Supply tucker’s hat and aviator style sunglasses. He pointed a small silver twenty-five caliber pistol at Titus’ head.
“Give it up. Crack that safe, too, Bro,” he said.
Titus handed him all the bills in his drawer, his hands steady as if a normal routine. “Take it all man, they don’t pay me shit.”
He manipulated his key ring and opened the floor safe next to where we sat. It felt like hours before he had filled the black plastic bag with the rest of the bills. “Take some lotto scratchers, too,” Titus pleaded, throwing three large rolls of tickets into the bag.
I couldn’t tell you what Mike and Kevin were doing as I developed tunnel vision and could only focus on the bag. I felt frozen when he ordered us down. Eventually sliding to the floor in one fluid motion, I was lying on my belly. Titus didn’t move. I remember counting the number of tiles on the floor in front of me. They were small white squares with brown grout. The surface looked as if it had been recently washed with a dirty mop. I could see the dry water stains in a sweeping pattern covering the length of the floor behind the counter. I reached thirteen when I heard the pop.
A sound that was familiar to me, a peripheral noise, became deafening, ominous. I watched Titus hit the floor, knocking back the stool as he fell. His head hit the ground so hard it bounced. A nickel sized hole dotted his forehead. There wasn’t a remarkable amount of blood as you’d expect but a diminutive stream ran down to his nose. His eyes were slits. The second pop was almost silent and the only thing I could hear was the mini TV, Chief Gillespie explaining to Sgt. Bubba Skinner how southern justice was just like the weather; “it’s not always fair, but the heat’ll drive a sane man mad if he lives here long enough.”