text: For what it’s worth, Mr. Hawaii already saw the Lugar hanging through my hoodie from the window. No fooling him. The police were on their way even before the convenience store door *ding-donged* my arrival. Hey, it was my first time, for whatever that’s worth, shoot me. The closed-circuit television captured me in black and white glory. Hood up. Hands in pockets. Total nonchalance, like back before I was allowed to listen to Slayer and Mom would lead me through the great glass gates of Targets and Home Depots. For what it’s worth, she did all the talking then. “Got one of those slushie machines?” My voice didn’t even crack. That was the first trick. Confidence. Mr. Hawaii’s fists pressed into the counter as he eyed me. So much hair. It tickled his knuckles and crawled up his arms into the half-buttoned vacation shirt, like back when Mom almost got tackled by the mall security woman with gorilla arms. After that, we had to drive the entire length of her collection of Joan Jett CDs before stopping again. If it’s worth anything, that’s when I first learned what cunt meant. Waiting on Mr. Hawaii’s response, my kneecaps wobbled in my jeans, the scabbed one catching denim. It was too late to turn around and abandon the plan now. Fortunately, he broke and raised his plump finger at the corner of the store. “Over there.” Don’t turn your back, Mom would say. But, for what it’s worth, this wasn’t Herman’s Hardware Supply where the aisles stretched into the ceiling. This was Konnor’s Kwick Mart where convex security mirrors were nailed to the wall. Mr. Hawaii watched me watch him from the glass. “What’re these worth?” My hand patted my empty back pocket like it was looking for a wallet. That was the second trick. Mislead. “One ninety-nine. Large.” His head ballooned in the mirror as I reached for one of the plastic cups. Cherry-red slush *glug-glugled* from the machine, like back last winter when Mom fell face-forward into the motel parking lot. Her blood melted the asphalt snow into dirty clumps of brown tar. For what it’s worth, the hanging flap of forehead didn’t even make me vomit, even when she told me to press it to her skull so she could super glue it shut. I let the slushie machine shudder to a stop. The thick flavored syrup didn’t even climb up to the brim. It was the least I could do, if that’s worth anything. Mr. Hawaii hadn’t moved. “Hey, if I worked here, I’d never stop drinking these.” My smile was big enough to show teeth. That was the third trick. Befriend. For what it’s worth, that got Mr. Hawaii to raise an eyebrow. The gun slapped against the bottom of my stomach as I walked past the great wall of chips. Flammin’ Hot BBQ. Sour Cream and Onion. Nacho Cheese. Charbroiled Bacon Burger. Each bag, a three-course meal, like back when Mom was too sick to get out of bed, and I got to eat from a motel vending machine for a week. For what it’s worth, it spit out two snacks for the price of one if you held down the “A” and “B” buttons at the same time. After that, it was back to pre-packaged salads and granola bars. Mr. Hawaii unfurled his fists to tap the counter, looking feverishly out the window. This should have tipped me off, but for whatever it’s worth, it didn’t. I was too busy flipping through the bags of chips like they were porno mags. “Hey, what’s your favorite flavor?” I asked. His shoulders sagged. Again, the eyebrow raised. For what it’s worth, he even stopped drumming his fingers against the counter. The corner of a single dark blue bag poked out from the back of the shelf. Hey, Cool Ranch, that’s one I’ve always wanted to try. Pulling it free, all the chips in front fell to the floor. Salt and Vinegar. New York Style Pizza. They scattered at my feet. My scabbed kneecap stung as I knelt down on it. “Shit, sorry. I got it.” For what it’s worth, most of the bags fit in the crook of my arm, but as I stood back up my head knocked a glass jar of queso to the floor. The congealed cheese splattered over my shoes sending the broken lid rolling down the aisle. If it’s worth anything, the gun didn’t go off. Mom would be rolling in her grave. Mr. Hawaii *tick-ticked* his tongue. “Alright,” he said, the edge in his voice was gone. “What do you think you’re doing?” Did I do it now? Mom never let me watch this part, like back when we stopped at the gas station surrounded by palm trees and desert. The first time I heard a gunshot, for what it’s worth. She almost caught me trying to shove an ice cream sandwich down my pants when she came up behind me. “Car,” she said. That was the signal. My jeans strangled the frozen treat against my thigh as I shuffled outside and around the corner to where we parked. Mom started shouting at the attendant. Her voice made it all the way into the car, muffled by concrete walls and tempered glass. I leaned forward to adjust the passenger’s seat. And boom! The Fat Boy popped open like a blown out diaper. “Eh?” Mr. Hawaii asked. The gun stayed deep in my hoodie, if that’s worth anything. “Look, just bring whatever you want up. Okay?” His shaky mannerisms evolved into confidence. I snatched the blue bag of chips and stumbled to the counter. The condensation from the slushie trickled down the sides of the cup, pooling against my thumb and finger. Mr. Hawaii reached into his back pocket, looking down his gold-tinted aviators at me. Did I do it now? He slapped his thick wallet on the counter, too big to stay folded shut, and fingered out a slick black card. The register *beep-beeped* as he entered prices. A single large slushie, one ninety-nine. One bag of family sized potato chips, two forty-five. For what it’s worth, he answered my question. “Cool Ranch.” He took his slick black card and swiped it through the machine. “That’s my favorite too.” A package of Newport menthols ruffled in his breast pocket as he crammed the card back into his wallet, like this morning when Mom died. Her half-smoked cigarette had rolled beneath the crack of the bathroom door while I watched Good Morning America on the box TV. She’d fallen asleep on the toilet before, but wasting a cigarette? She never wasted anything. I knocked first, for what it’s worth. Each round louder than the last. By the time Robin Roberts sent everyone to a commercial break, I was jimmying the lock open. Too still to be asleep, her body lay cradled in the small gap between the tub and the toilet. The cord from the motel’s courtesy hair dryer wrapped tight around her bicep. I didn’t know CPR, but for what it’s worth, I pulled her free and mimicked what Dr. Greene did in reruns of ER. Glass from a broken syringe sliced into my knee as I straddled over her and hammered her chest with the heel of my hand. “You hear me, kid?” Mr. Hawaii ripped the printed receipt from its box. “Said, there’s a homeless shelter two-blocks up.” He pointed his plump finger in the same direction as the slushie machine. “Let me give ya the address.” If it’s worth anything, my knees stopped wobbling. Mr. Hawaii scribbled something down on the back of the receipt in black marker. The dark ink bled through and smelled like bad gasoline. “Tell ‘em Steve sent ya.”I shoved the receipt and the chips into my hoodie with the Lugar. Did I do it now? I didn’t, if that’s worth anything. I mumbled thanks and left. Didn’t even make eye contact. Walked right out into the parking lot and kept going. Mom would have been so disappointed. Taking a large gulp of slushie, a chunk of cherry flavored ice melted down my throat. The cold trail left behind crawled up the back of my jaw and into my temples. My eyes slammed shut to try and override the inevitable brain freeze, like back when Mom laughed at me for biting straight into an ice cream cone. The jolt of pain from the frosted vanilla bean made me drop the treat with a *splat*. And if it’s worth anything, Mom never bought me sweets. I cried harder than Mom laughed. Dots of ice cream stippled the bottom of my overalls and Buzz-Lightyear sneakers. Mom knelt over my broken cone and held her own sprinkled covered one up to me. She didn’t even hesitate, for what it’s worth. “This time don’t eat it all at once. Okay?” she chuckled. “It’s not going anywhere.” “You. Stop.” a voice commanded. A shadow, too skinny to be Mr. Hawaii’s, appeared beside mine. “Turn around. Hands where I can see ‘em.” For what it’s worth, I didn’t let go of the slushie as I turned. Held it up in the air like a holy grail, condensation dripping to the ground. The voice belonged to a woman in brown starch. Neat and ironed. A cop uniform. She didn’t have gorilla arms, if that’s worth anything, but one of them was raised at the elbow. Hand on holster. “Got a call ‘bout a possible robbery,” Ms. Starch said. “You causin’ trouble?” Her uniform was tucked in tight. Not a single wrinkle. My knees shook. “No. No. He paid,” I said, reaching into my hoodie. The receipt would be proof of that. But for what it’s worth, I didn’t know the outline of the Lugar was visible. The slushie splattered on the cement sidewalk first. My body followed, legs crumpling beneath the weight of my torso. Someone yelled “shit.” It may have been me. I slammed into the sidewalk like a broken toilet seat. Loose gravel embedded into my face and shoulder. A warm pain drooled from my hip, spilling out onto the concrete and into the pool of slush. The Cool Ranch chips were decimated, for what it’s worth. Popped and crunched beneath my gut. No chance of saving them.