“Do Nice People Get Discounts?” pt. ll

My mom went with me to the store. There had been a pair of Vans Sk8-Hi’s I’d been coveting a while now (black-on-black nubuck with read stitching on the heel, and an Inuit-inspired Totem design on the outsole, replete with a matching pair of kerchiefs), from the safety of the pizzeria next door. Now that I was unencumbered by the fiscal repercussions of such a purchase (i.e., my mom was buying), I got the shoes at long last. I got those shoes and the embroidered New Era black-on-black “H” cap. As the freshly flanneled clerk rang me up, I asked him:

“Do you guys still do that Zachary’s* discount?”

“Sure. You work at Zachary’s?,” he asked. I could tell he was already inclined to give me the discount; anyway, he knew I’d worked there. I’d brought him and his boys pizza and Coronas a couple times when they ordered them, and once I saw him at the Library stop on his fixed-gear bike. I’d said what’s up.

“Oh, yeah. Yeah, I am,” I said, nodding reassuringly.

Alright, he said, taking my mother’s credit card and slipping it through the card reader. Staring at the receipt printer as it began to hum, he asked me how business was over there at Zachary’s during the holidays. I hadn’t counted on this. All I had wanted to do was save my mom a couple bucks on her impromptu Christmas presents for me. I guess the guilt in accepting such spontaneous generosity prompted me to lie to a casual acquaintance who worked at a really cool sneaker boutique I still really kinda wanted to work at. I wouldn’t have gone along with the snap-decision if I’d known I’d have to substantiate my bullshit with a slew of invented dialogue and lies.

“Yeah, well, you know,” I said. Normal breathing patterns alluded me. “People are tired after Christmas shopping and they stop by because buying makes them hungry and it’s a real pain trying to serve them pizza because you have to watch out for their bags, which makes it tough to navigate between the tables with some deep dish in your hands.”

The clerk gave me a knowing smile. I did my best to smile back while trying my best to evaluate a fixed-gear video based on its cover art.

He slid the receipt onto the counter and my mom picked up a nearby pen and traced out her signature. He replaced the white copy with the carbon copy and handed me the big “H” bag.

“Well, I’ll be seeing you across the street, then,” the clerk said.

I was half way out the door before my mom finished folding the receipt into her eel purse, which she took great care to tuck into its appropriate place in her outsized purse.

I waved past the window display.

I’m never setting foot near Fog Street and Descuenta Avenue again.

*”Zachary’s” is the name of the East Bay pizzeria that my bosses (both former employees there) have been accused of ripping off.