Page 1 of Paradox
The beets.
I just had to get the fucking beets.
In the middle of the produce co-op parking lot, I swear, "Get the fuck in there,” at the fifty-pound sack, and dig my shoulder into the tailgate of my 1984 Chevy pickup to force it shut.
It doesn’t work. I’ve never really had much of a way with words.
Climbing into the back, I slap the canopy for being in the way of my head and haul the sack of sweet potatoes on top of the regular potatoes. Then drag the beets on top of the carrots.
After closing the tailgate, my foot is on the accelerator before I allow myself a second to stop and think. The engine sputters, but I just push her harder. She can handle it. She’s stronger than I am.
I eye the I-5 exit sign, contemplating whether or not I should skip my last stop and make up some time.
I never turn my truck, though, because if one rash decision is crazy, then two is straight up moronic. The wilderness of the Pacific Northwest might be calling me right now, but she's also an unforgiving bitch this time of year. And I refuse to be caught without the right supplies.
With one hand on the wheel, I take my phone from the pocket of my sweatpants and toss it to my right. The damn thing hasn’t stopped buzzing since I left the shop. I know Reeze wouldn’t be stupid enough to call after I dumped all his shit out on the street and left him with a broken nose, so it must be Shawn.
Scratch that. Iknowit’s Shawn. Just like I know I’d get the performance of a lifetime if I answered.
Pulling into the parking lot of Albertsons Liquor, I break so late that something crashes against the back cab window. Refusing to look, I grab my phone out of habit, and head to the back of my truck to open the tailgate in preparation for my next haul.
If there was a Guinness world record for how quickly you can load six cases of beer onto a liquor cart, I’d have just broken it.
“How come I wasn’t invited?”
“Ha? Oh, hey Austin.” I nod, never attempting to cover my attitude.
“You having a party?”
“No.” I don’t look at him. I’m too distracted by the full size bars of chocolate by the register. I’d managed to resist their temptation at the dry goods store, but it turns out I was a much stronger man thirty minutes ago.
“Are you on your period, dude?”
Looking up from the armful of chocolate I just dumped on the register, I glare at him. “That’s fucking offensive.”
“Come on, man. I was only—”
“Imagine hormones forcing your body to tear away at one of its internal organs once a month—every month—for thirty years.Then, on top of that, you have men on your back accusing you of being too hysterical or bitchy. Then, at the end of the day, they have the audacity to treat themselves, only to get shit on all over again for eating a bar of fucking chocolate!”
“Dude, it was a fucking joke.”
“Cool.” I shrug, my temper calming at a psychopathic rate. “Then you won’t mind me joking with the boys about how your dick goes hella crooked when you get hard.”
“Screw you. That’s not the same thing.”
“It’s the exact same thing… I’ll have two cartons of Camel Filters.”
“Anything else?” he asks through gritted teeth.
“Yeah, actually. Can I get all the matches?”
As Austin reaches behind him, he eyes my phone as it lights up again. “What d’ya need this many matches for?”
“To burn this place down.”
“Just promise you’ll wait till I clock off… Is this enough?” I look down at the eight boxes of matches. “There are more out the back, but it’ll take me a minute to find them.”
“It’s fine, don’t bother. I just need the smokes then I'll be out of your hair.”
