Two-dollar discount.

 

Next door is ATM. Dmitri's. You get cash. I give you two-dollar discount. 

Thick, Russian accent. Twinkle in his eye. He fixes shoes on Falls Road. A real Baltimore fixture for sure. Dark blue overalls half sticky with dried glue, half slippery with wax and oil. White beard like a tired Christmas decoration. 

I dropped this bag of shoes off three months ago in the warm autumn sun. The day I almost got backed over while waiting to cross the street, remember? 

Hey. HEY! Banging 

on the window pounding 

on the window but the car kept moving. 

Angry mad tall fiery 

redhead, cursing. 

Kicking epithets into silver metal. 

What the fuck are you doing? Didn't you see me standing there? I was standing there. You didn't see me standing there.

I'm sorry, so sorry, Sparks. I feel terrible.

I walk next door to Dmitri's, thinking the ATM is just inside the door. Instead, I walk smack into a dive bar right in the middle of a video game and a few dejected conversations. There are more than half a dozen riff-raff and two sorry looking women. 

White trash. Mullets. 

Fifty-year old pot bellies and 

crinkled, sagging 

breasts 

watching a Ravens game. 

Cheap beer everywhere and it's not even noon. 

Who the hell drinks before noon, anyway?

Some young, some old. Some white, some brown. But all looking like they'd seen better days. Days when they weren't compelled to drink before noon.

The potbellies light up when I walk in. It's not like that. Sorry. No, you can't buy me a drink. I just need some cash for the cobbler.

Is there an ATM in here? 

Around the corner in the back. 

Thanksomuch. I get my cash and leave.