Hot right? There’s nothing like sticky floors and stale spinning hot dogs to get the juices flowing. It
was actually outside the 7-Eleven. I was parked in my truck, taking lunch. I liked the Bi-mart parking lot
for my breaks. It was just on the edge of my recycle route. That’s right, my garbarge-man recycle-truck
driving route. I had been working this job for the past two years since getting out of the Army at 24.
It was a glass-truck. I picked up the blue boxes lining the neighborhoods and filled with all the empty
loneliness we are all so nobly and responsibly disposing of. I had to drive my truck from the right side
when on-route, standing up and without a door. I had very defined calve muscles to say the least.
I was parked at the edge of the Bi-Mart parking lot, just before the ambiguous crossover into
pavement leased to the 7-Eleven corp, two rows of spots away from the pumps. I was watching her
scrolling through the RedBox on the curb outside next to the propane cage and plastic-wrapped
firewood stacked on mildewed pallets.