Losing in Gainesville (9781940430331) by Brian Costello

the question, “WHY DO THEY TASTE LIKE ANCHOVIES?” above a picture of a dead green fish with white stink squiggles.
    Everybody haw haw haws, including Ronnie, who actually finds it funny. He might even buy it if he had the money. But he doesn’t, and it would be bad form to steal on the first day of the job.
    â€œY’all, that’s gross!” Kim says, eliciting further laughs from the fishermen.
    â€œYeah, I’d buy it,” the fisherfather says, starting to walk away with the two Old Hamtramck 12-packs. “But I have a feeling his mother,” and here, he turns his head to his fisherson, “wouldn’t take too kindly to it.”
    Ronnie does not share these concerns. The hat should be his. It is already so close to his head, hanging there. He was never a thief, never had klepto tendencies growing up the way some kids were always stealing gum etc. from stores. It’s only one white trash hat out of dozens that never get sold in these kinds of stores. They’re practically decorations anyway. Travis is on his lunch break. If Ronnie is to make the hat his, he will have to do it now, with Travis gone, and when Kim goes off to take one of countless smoke breaks.
    The temptation is too great. While Kim stands on the minimart’s front sidewalk puffing a Merit, Ronnie removes the hat, bundles it up, stuffs it down his “professionally attired” khaki slacks. His blue Oxford shirt is large enough to cover the obvious bulge, and no one can see over the counter anyway.
    Ronnie rings up Lunchables and Cokes for the workaday construction or landscaping crews on their breaks. Kim watches his fingers for any slight mis-hit of the register’s buttons from Ronnie as she sings along with the Young Country Music from the store’s speakers—off-key renditions of tunes tackling topics like memories of the fun had near rivers as a randy teenager, of overly confident rural men with tremendous pride in their country and background, of rowdy bars full of questionable characters who, despite all outward appearances and behaviors, are a swell bunch of folks. And so on. And so forth.
    â€œWhat kind of music do you like?” Kim asks. “I seen your hair.”
    Ronnie hates this question. “I don’t know, man . . . ” he says, unable to hide his annoyance. “A lot of things. Punk? Jazz?”
    â€œThat ain’t music,” Kim says, matter-of-factly. She points to the ceiling, where the Young Country never stops. “Now this— this —is music.”
    Ronnie doesn’t speak to her again.
    Travis returns from his lunch break, waddling through the front door, proclaiming, “Hooeee, those were some mighty fine ribs. My-tee fine!” Ronnie immediately steps away from the register, announces “Going on my break now!” He leaves the register island, circling away to the main walkway out the door. “Be back in half an hour,” Travis says, and Ronnie blurts out a “Yup!” and pushes open the doors, steps out, hears the sleigh bells taped to shing-shing when anyone enters or leaves the Stop and Shop and Gas and Go.
    â€œHe ain’t comin’ back, is he?” Travis says, rib sauce drying around his mouth and on his fingers, still standing three steps in from the doors.
    â€œDoubt it,” Kim says, taking one step to the register, humming along to the Young Country music. “You seen his hair?”
    Ronnie’s blandy apple green domestic sedan squeals into reverse. He shifts to drive, zooms out of the parking lot, cuts off a dirty white lunchwagon whose driver almost honks her horn. At the next light, Ronne reaches down, pulls out the “IF GIRLS ARE MADE OF SUGAR AND SPICE . . . ” hat. He smiles at his reflection in the rear view mirror. He drives towards the University, to the saffron and purple gowned Krishnas doling out free food. He will eat, then drive across town