A true story of imagined becomings.
It’s not cold at all in the store but she’s got the shakes. Standing behind the counter as I swipe her groceries through the register a customer is holding her arms around her chest, she’s trembling blue. Teeth rattling. I wonder, is it nicotine withdrawals? Alcohol? Something harder, illegal? Cocaine-heroin-speed-cannabis?
My dead-end job makes my mind scream for something interesting, exciting. This customer in front of me – I decide – is the wife of an infamous drug mule: Antonio Gonzales. Her name is Maria and she’s hiding in the town while hundreds of heroin filled baggies are posted to her in the soft stomach of stuffed Pokémon toys.
She’s a keen collector (seller and user) of stuffed Pokémon toys. I may just be a check-out chick swiping her bread and milk but I know her secret… I won’t say anything except be perfectly polite and nice, thank her and wish her a nice day. But avoid too much eye contact or she might know that you know and then I would have to take the first flight out of here to Micronesia, hide in an underground bungalow and re-name myself as a French scientist who is researching soil erosion.
My name would be french but not obviously french. Like Charlotte Saint James. Yeah, that would work. Shit, where did I put my passport? Maria leaves with a thankyou, shaking arms wrapped around her plastic bags full of food. Maria leaves, waiting for a special delivery and love package from her husband. She’ll stop shaking then.
I think boredom is the best thing for anyone’s imagination. What do you reckon?