drunk. hungry. microwave burrito still heating.
It is approximately 2 am, far later than any civilized man should be awake. Nevertheless, I wander the streets in search of a meal. My cigarette burns a cheery red, though my stomach turns, revolting against the considerable volume of alcohol which I had so brazenly consumed. The first three Mexican establishments I pass are closed for the night. Young men in aprons swarm busily about the still-lit interiors, cleaning tables and straightening chairs. I curse my luck, soldering on. I pass a liquor store, the steel gates partially closed, but a cheery neon sign advises me of the proprietor's obligation to serve a wretch such as myself. Doubling back, I enter.
I make my way to the freezer, sorting amongst the plethora of frozen burritos and pocket sandwiches, searching for one that strikes my fancy.
"It is nearly closing time, my friend," the clerk informs me, with the appropriate ratio of jocularity and menace befitting a man of his occupation, "You should make your decision quickly."
Without delay, I grab a beef burrito, aware though uncaring of whatever intestinal discomfort such a treat may bring with the morn. "That will be a dollar twenty-five," the said clerk informs me, deftly punching the appropriate numbers into his register.
I deal out a pair of dollar bills. The man takes my tender and hands over my seventy-five cents in change. Wishing the gentleman a good night, I exit his establishment, marching towards my bed and a night's respite.
I make my way to the freezer, sorting amongst the plethora of frozen burritos and pocket sandwiches, searching for one that strikes my fancy.
"It is nearly closing time, my friend," the clerk informs me, with the appropriate ratio of jocularity and menace befitting a man of his occupation, "You should make your decision quickly."
Without delay, I grab a beef burrito, aware though uncaring of whatever intestinal discomfort such a treat may bring with the morn. "That will be a dollar twenty-five," the said clerk informs me, deftly punching the appropriate numbers into his register.
I deal out a pair of dollar bills. The man takes my tender and hands over my seventy-five cents in change. Wishing the gentleman a good night, I exit his establishment, marching towards my bed and a night's respite.