The kids, freshly sprung from the incarceration of the school day, infiltrate the aisles of the bodega like a herd of sheep - skittish, unpredictable, and faster than one might think. They move like a river, jostling one another and pouring around obstacles, dragging chocolate bars and coke cans and Little Debbie cakes in their wake.
Once they’ve selected their snacks, they mill about in front of the register in chattering clumps of 3 and 4, self-segregated by sex, until, through some sort of teenage brownian motion, then manage to reach the cashier and pay, almost always in small change.
i finally get my turn in front of the harried man behind the counter and joke, “Making all your money at once, huh?” and he laughs, but his laugh has an edge.
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