All the middle schoolers smoke White Runtz. They come into my store and I don’t tell them anything. It is easier to sell Arizona Iced Tea and fresh produce to a client whose nucleus accumbens is totally deregulated. Supply-side economics— you know what I’m saying.

I put the snacks in the bag and watch a cracked iPhone 6 come out of the pocket of an Anti Social Social Club hoodie as this goober goes and taps to pay. His lock screen flickers on and I see a picture of Lionel Messi in a Barca kit. It was black and said Qatar Airways.

“You better Zelle me fatass” he says to his friend. “Fuck you,” was the reply.

They take their snacks and I turn my attention to more pressing matters. 10, 20, 30 Instagram Reels until the self-loathing arrives. I switch to regular stories. A girl who I half-dated in high school just posted from behind ANOTR’s DJ booth at Circo Loco. And Where am I? Aiding and abetting the delinquencies of some soon-to-be-geeked-Holden-Caulfield-meets-Peso-Pluma motherfuckers. They won’t read that until next year.

Skateboards rattle against the curb, scaring the peacocks and bringing down property values. As I watch these kids’ clandestine solution to the housing crisis, I fantasize about the day that I get fired because the owner sold the spot and moved to Naples or some shit. I might even leverage my strategic position as a snack vendor and transition into an operative role as a snapchat plug, LinkedIn success story type.

They are making a lot of noise at this point. I try to tune out their intra-pubescent shouts and mischaracterizations of female genitalia with the rattle and hum of our f’real milkshake machine. I consider offering them my busted JBL. At least let them play some Gunna Wunna. Three more youngsters walk by, 5 total in case you’re also high. More kids means more business and the street’s entrepreneurial spirit beat me to this conclusion. A Toyota minivan pulls into the parking lot and the sliding rear door opens. This wasn’t a kidnapping, just drugs. No need to intervene.

“Y’all hungry?” says a guy from inside
“Yo tell him you want two Gs,” one of the new boys says.
“Dumbass, there’s some bot inside watching” “He’s chill bro, just do it”

I couldn’t really tell who said it but that was probably the nicest thing someone has said about me in a while. I came out from behind the counter and got closer to the window. Of course, my view was still kind of obstructed by the Juul advertisements that we plaster on with no regard for human life. I watched the product exchange hands, Richard Nixon go one layer deeper into the Inferno, and all the tensions ease. I smile at the ritual that follows. Kid 1 takes an apple out of an Adidas Drawstring Bag and hands it to another one.
Like prime Mesut Ozil splitting Premier League defenses, the boy pulls out a tiny knife and carves a tunnel into the apple. It becomes a bong. Another two break up the bud and place it into a metal tin. Calm and calculated, they turn the grinder counter-clockwise. Time spins forward and desire meshes into satisfaction. No one is tired, no one complains.

They huddle around and pack the apple. Even I smile in anticipation.

A Bic Spiderman lighter appears and its flame opens up the humid night. The apple passes through the group. Transported away from whatever fucked up mix of Biopsychosocial factors lead 14-year-olds to sesh in West Grove store-fronts, they disperse into small pockets of euphoria. Dear Albert Bandura, why is my child faded?

The strain is called White Runtz because the ashes burn white. A lot of ash is actually white so this is really just marketing. Regardless, the apple looked like a reverse cremation by the end of it. It was almost biblical. I thought that was funny.

The wind comes at 2 in the morning. In this city, it does not howl nor cry Mary. Instead, Phil Casagrande’s tropical breeze cools the sweaty part of your neck and keeps going until it stops helping and you realize that you are cold at 85 degrees. It’s like getting only the syrup from a soda machine or head after you already came. Even the lizards shiver. With their minds turned to Galaga, the boys turn towards each other. All they do is laugh a little but I am captivated. I was watching humanity restore to factory settings.

I start to move around. I restock the shelves, sweep the floor, and leave my grandmother a voicemail. I look for the balance that those kids felt. 50% sativa 50% indica. Then I got nervous that you’d think this exaggerated description was corny. My bad yo.

I was thinking of another way to make you laugh when I turned from the kids and stared into aisle 4. I couldn’t distinguish between the products. I conquered the illusion of choice and all I had to do was sell fruit to kids to use to do drugs. I’m sorry about that line as well.

Now I’m at an emotional breaking point. Outside, I see Bacchae’s satyrs watching try-not-laugh compilations. Inside, I cry as the 74 watt fluorescent lights break my eyes. I do not really know how to describe tears at a convenience store but it was sad I guess.

I didn’t gather myself. It was too late to keep it cool. I watch the kids get tired of contributing to some future Sociologists thesis about the extent to which the dialectic of identity and role confusion interact within psychoactive post-modern structures of social hierarchy, or whatever the fuck, and got back on their skateboards to go home.

I want to follow them. However, I am not a fucking creep. Instead, I just go back to my worn seat at the counter. I spend the rest of my shift staring at the picture of the owner’s family that is taped to the cash register. I see quiet desperation, two boys, and an ugly dog. I assume their mom was behind the camera.