Sometimes Liquor Stores Are What Dreams Are Made Of.

7 Dec

Every little boy has a dream about what he wants to be when he grows up. Cal wanted to own a liquor store. His father, Verne had owned one before Cal was born but it had mysteriously burned down.

After a bunch of part-time jobs and a heated squabble with the liquor license people Cal’s dream came true.

He liked stacking the shelves with the comforting colored bottles. Mostly brown, some clear, the rare red and his favorite the other worldly green of melon liqueur.

He was not so crazy about the cans. They had a definite dead sound. Like a soul lost in the world.

The customers were a bit of a trial. The anxious looks of many as they waited for you to slip a half-pint into the thin bag. The ignoring of so many fine mixers available to mellow the alcohol. The refusal to meet your eyes or match your smile. The pointless stories and complaints about exorbitant taxes.

The young punks were the worst. Trying to pass off laughable fake ids. Or worse trying to sneak some contraband out the door. (How many bottle shaped bulges had he seen in letter sweaters over the years?)

Yeah, his clientele really got to him sometimes. So much so that lately he had begun to see a mysterious fire in his future.


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