Liquor Store

     I didn’t get drunk until my 21st birthday. We went to Sardo’s, the shady strip mall bar  off Victory with Pornstar Karaoke on Tuesday nights. Matt, Jeph, and Ari’s shitty hipster friends kept buying me drinks. It was all embarrassing stuff, too. They’d get me a “blowjob” or an “apple martini” or “sex on the beach”. The next thing I knew, I was waking up on Ari’s couch with the plastic little white trashcan from the bathroom next to my face, full of stinking, watery puke. Ari was sitting on a kitchen chair next to me. She ran her fingers through my hair when I woke up and said, “Glad you’re still with us.” Then she handed me a big green bottle of Listerine and told me if I’m still thirsty, I should drink that instead.

    The other rare cases when I got drunk weren’t too different.

    That’s why I feel weird when I walk into a liquor store. I always feel guilty, like I’m still some 16 year-old who might get asked to leave when I’m trying to buy a soda. I get nervous and overthink things.

    I stroll in and give an up-nod to the old Korean, who seems to be the only person behind the counter, no matter the time of day or night. I come by maybe a couple of times a week, but I still have to remind him I’m cool. The old cashier is smiling, but not at me.

    Down the first aisle is a rotund black man in a dark green suit with large, purple buttons and a shiny, silk, purple pocket square. He has a few chains on—all gold—with a large cross dangling from one. He’s pushing one of those mini-carts I’ve only ever seen sitting in the corner gathering dust. It’s already full of bottles; they clank loudly as he piles more in. 

    “Blood of Christ, blood of Christ,” the man sing-says in a deep baritone, “that’s what we need, now.” His voice booms from his belly, like he’s preaching. His head turns side to side as he talks, speaking to anyone who might be listening.

    “Your church must be big,” the cashier says with a bit of an accent left, “because that’s a lot of Jesus blood you buying.”

    The black man clanks more bottles into the cart, “Oh you are right, you are right, but I will tell you, brother, what God said. God said ‘the Kingdom of Heaven is on Earth’ and if that is the case which, believe me, it is, l am certainly going to enjoy all of His heavenly gifts.”

     This is the kind of man who would sit across from me on the subway, talking to me at full volume, even if I had my earbuds in and my eyes on my feet. I bet Ari would love talking to him. She would look deep into his eyes and say something obvious like “I can tell you’re a man of faith” and they would start a conversation. She would claim she’s “not religious, just spiritual,” and he would eat it up, explaining his personal connection with a higher power.

    I dip my head, stuff my hands in my pockets, and sneak down another aisle towards the fridge in the back. 

    Bottles beep as the cashier scans them. The guy in the suit keeps preaching to the cashier and I, a small audience. “My friend,” his voice projects to fill the tiny store, “you must understand that, as a man of the cloth I have a few responsibilities, which include...” 

    It’s hard not to listen, but I’ve got enough going on in my own head. I used to be religious like how all kids were religious. I went to church sometimes, Christmas and Easter, at least. I repeated things when everyone else repeated things. I bowed my head when all other heads bowed. It only made sense at 12 years old when other kids my age stopped going I stopped going, too. What reason did I have to stay?

    There are only 20 ounce cans of Monster here, so I grab three. I’ll still have $16 left for tomorrow. And then after tomorrow—

     Someone touches my shoulder and I flinch.    

    “You listening to me, young brother?” 

      It’s the preacher guy. He steps back and puts his hands up, “Whoah, whoah now,” he laughs, “I ain’t trying to scare ya’, I’m just wondering what you’re doing out at this sort of an establishment so early in the day?” 

    An steady rhythm of bottles beep fill the awkward silence.

    I hold up my Monsters, “Energy,” I say, and I squeeze past him. 

    “My name,” the man continues, “is Peterson. Reverend J. J. Peterson, and I preach the word at the church up on Alameda.” 

    I’m nodding now. I give him room to get to the counter and he uses it to turn around and talk to me.

    “How much do you know about Jesus?” he asks.

    I look away from him.

    “You do know,” he says, “Jesus died for you, brother?”

    I twist my face in confusion, “Brother?”

    “Oh we are all brothers and sisters in Christ, let me tell you!” he says.

    “Mhmm,” I look away from Peterson. 

    The cashier loaded all of Peterson’s bottles into old cases so he only has to carry a few boxes home. The cashier, sensing my discomfort, says, “Sir, you can pay now.” 

    Reverend Peterson reaches into his pocket and pulls out a money clip fat with hundred dollar bills. He pulls a few out to pay the cashier and, before he can hand it over, he stops and looks at me. “I bet,” he says, “You haven’t been to church in years.”

    I open my mouth to say no, but he interrupts me.

    “And if you have, I will give you $100.” 

    “You’ll give me $100?” I ask.

    “If you can tell me, honest, with God’s truth—the only truth out there—you have been to church sometime in the last year, then yes,” he rubs the $100 bill between his thumb and forefinger, “I will give you $100.”

    One hundred dollars could get me a lot of Monster and pizza. There are sunflower seeds by the register and it would feel nice to make a few guilt-free impulse purchases...  I don’t like to lie, though. That’s never been me and it doesn’t seem right to start now. As much as this charismatic meatball in more chains than DMX could stand to lose $100 and I could stand to gain it, I can’t tell such a blatant lie. 

    “Nah,” I admit, “I haven’t.”

    Peterson smiles. He has a shiny gold tooth in place of a big one in front. It’s disarming, somehow. The rest of him is flashy in a way that might impress but this, for some reason, relaxes me. Like it’s a sign of humanity. “Here you go,” he offers me the bill.

    “I said I don’t go to church,” I repeat.

    He laughs, “I know,” his arm still outstretched, “but you were honest with me and I like that.” He touches the money to my chest, “So take it.”

    I take the money and look down. It’s a crisp new bill, with a lot of shiny security features and a weird orange and green color scheme. “Why are you giving this to me?”

    “Because,” he pauses, “I like you.” 

    I suck my teeth, “Thhk. Like me?”

    “You’re honest, and not too many young brothers are these days,” he turns to the cashier, “Keep the change.” Then he grabs the Monster from me, “And I’m getting the drinks for this young man right behind me.”

    “Thanks,” I say, “but I can get this at least.”

    “Nonsense,” he insists, “the least you can do is help me take one of these boxes down the street over to my church.”

    A catch. At least it’s an easy one.

    Peterson sees the hesitation on my face and says, “Come on now, I’m not gonna’ read your happiness and steal your soul or anything! You don’t even have to come inside.” 

    I laugh at myself. What is this guy going to do? Mug me? Beat me up? Force Jesus down my throat? “Sounds cool,” I grab a box and follow him outside.

    “You know some people would say that what you did, telling the truth and getting rewarded, that’s an example of this thing they call karma,” Reverend Peterson explains. “And do you know what karma is? Karma is some Buddhist principle that people just adopted as popular culture. Culture, right now, right here in Los Angeles, the most beautiful city in the world, is Universalist. Do you know what that is?” 

    Peterson is in front of me. I wish I could see his face so I could tell if I’m supposed to answer. I keep opening my mouth to talk and he keeps on talking. There’s this rhythm. I nod and start to say, “Isn’t that—”

    “What it is,” he interrupts, “is the idea that everything is okay. Everything is something. Every belief is the same or similar enough and having faith in something that makes you happy, that’s all that matters. Everyone goes to heaven ‘cept Hitler, Stalin, and that kid you hated in elementary school.”

    I’m reluctant to try and talk again. “You sound mad?” I ask.

    “I am mad, young brother, I’m mad because—” he stops and turns around. “You know what?” 

    “What?”

    “I never asked your name.”

    “Oh,” I say, “I’m Burnerd.”

    “You said, ‘Bur-nerd?’”

    “Yeah,” I say, “that’s my name.”

    “Shouldn’t that be Bernard?” he asks.

    I sigh and explain “It’s spelled like that, but that’s not how it’s pronounced. Bur-nerd,” I emphasize, “That’s how you say my name.” 

    He has that gold-toothy smile again. “Alright, alright, you’re right, my man Bur-nerd,” he exaggerates, “well I’m glad to meet you.”

    We only walk a block or two before approaching the low steeple. It’s a short walk from my house, but I’d somehow managed to never notice it before.

    Peterson makes a sweeping gesture with his arm and says, “It ain’t much, but it’s home.” 

    I stop by the sidewalk and watch him walk up the brick steps. There is nothing keeping me here. He told me I don’t have to go inside and he made it pretty clear he doesn’t think bad karma was something I might get if I leave now. 

    He turns around, “You coming?”

***

    The inside of the church not ornate. We go through a side door into a hallway with white walls surrounding a few brown doors. The floor is blue linoleum and the lights are florescent, like some kind of elementary school.

    Peterson opens the door at the end of the hall and declares, “My office.”

    This is more of what I imagined. The back wall has a mural of black Jesus on the cross with two men—one white and one black—crucified on either side of him. In the background the sun is setting and the sky turning dark. Peterson slides in behind a large desk made out of some fancy, dark brown wood. The desk shines under the light of two solitary lamps in the back corners of the room. There are murals on the other two walls: one depicts the same black Jesus shouting something at a tree, the other is an old man hugging a dirty young guy while a clean-cut man watches from the background. These are scenes I don’t recognize. In the right corner of the room is a small bookcase, neatly lined with red leather-bound books. In the back left corner is a large armoire with a lock on it. 

    “Just put those down by my desk,” he says, “and have a seat, please.” He motions to the big leather chairs.

    I sit, squishing into the squeaky material. He pulls a tiny key from a hidden chain around his neck and unlocks the armoire with it. He starts stashing the bottles there. It’s all very orderly: the bottles hide under pictures of people I assume to be his family. I pull out my phone and flip it around in my hand. It’s the afternoon still and I don’t know what I’ll do for the rest of the day. If today was yesterday, I’d text Ari about this.

    Has so much changed in just one day? I wonder.

    “Do you want a drink?” he asks. He fetches wine glass and uncorks a bottle before I can answer. I shake my head no, so he only fills one glass.

    Tomorrow is going to suck.

    “You look like someone who has something on your mind.” Peterson is sitting down now. He points, “You keep checking your phone, somewhere you oughta be?”

    I let out a sarcastic “hah,” and shrug, “Not at all. I was just thinking—”

    “Thinking about what to do with the rest of your life, am I right?” 

    I take one of the Monsters out, open it with a loud crack, and take a gulp: smooth. There is a warm feeling in my chest when I drink Monster. Just the tickle of addiction, I suppose. It’s something I love to drink. There’s something beautiful about familiarity, something nice about stability. 

    I shrug.

    “See,” Peterson continues, “I may not believe in karma, Universalism, all these ideas coming together, but I do believe in destiny. Destiny is God’s path for you.” He pauses. “It’s the reason that God put you and I in the same store. It’s the reason that you are here right now.”

    “I have been thinking about the rest of my life.” I admit. Feeling bold, I ask, “Why am I here?”

    “God will tell you what to do.” 

    I scoff. “You’re God?”

    He laughs, “Ab-so-lutely not! Oh no, no, no! I’m not God, but God has led me to where I am in a very precise manner.”

    “Precise?”

    “It has been exact.” He grabs his left wrist with his right hand and mimes, pulling it bit by bit as he says, “I started as just some punk kid in Compton and then,” he tugs his hand, “my cousin was locked up for banging and then,” he tugs, “I met a preacher,” tugs, “went to church,” tug, “made my way to seminary, by chance. See, all of this is God putting me in the right position, around the right opportunities, giving me every chance to live the life He wants me to live.” The Reverend laughs, “He told me this was the life I needed to live.”

    “He told you?” I ask.

    “Oh yes, He spoke to me.”

    “Does he speak to everyone?” I ask.

    Peterson scratches his chin, “In some way or another, but—”

    “Like, literally? With words?”

    “For some people He will speak in action and others get words, but he speaks in such obvious ways that one cannot avoid His will.” Peterson smiles with his shiny tooth.

    I lean back in my chair. Why did I stop going to church? The last time I went, I liked whoever was preaching. It was a Scottish—maybe Irish—guy. He spoke like to Peterson, but his accent made every word seem more important. He never spoke about things as if they were dire, nothing too much about hell being imminent and the need for repentance, but no, he wasn’t the reason I stopped going. It was about other people. No one liked me and no one knew me. It seemed like every other time I went, the youth pastor would ask if I was new and try to introduce me to people, I’d been there since before they ever arrived.

    “You said there’s nowhere you have to be, is that the same tomorrow?”

    “Tomorrow?” I ask.

    “Tomorrow is Sunday.”

    I laugh a bit. Like the day of the week matters to me. “I suppose you want me to come by?” I joke.

    “It’s not what I want, young Burnerd, it’s what God wants. Look, do what you will but all I’m asking is keep your ears open and if God wants you to come by tomorrow at 11, you should listen to him.”

    “Welp,” I stand up, “thank you for the money and you’re welcome for the help carrying your Jesus juice.”

    “Come on, Burnerd, don’t be like that,” he’s still seated, not trying too hard to get me to stay. 

    “I’ve got a lot of nothing to do today,” I say, “So I better get to it.” I pick up my bag and leave.      

    Sometimes when people come up to me on the subway or at a gas station or wherever and start to scam on me, I give them money. I give it to those people who say, “I don’t mean to bother you but…” or, “This is really embarrassing but…” and then tell some sob story about something hard to believe. I give money to them when they say something interesting or keep my attention. I appreciate the effort—the tact. I’m willing to listen to Reverend Peterson when he’s giving me the smiles and the conversation, but I don’t want to listen to the hard sell. 

    Hunger pangs me when I get home. I realize I haven’t eaten all day. It feels wrong to go outside again, but after flipping open two pizza boxes and finding hard, dried-up pizza, I stand. I don’t know what I should be doing, so I grab a trash bag from the kitchen and start cleaning around the couch. Two bags are full of curled cardboard and crushed cans by the time I finish, but I feel the need to keep going. I head into my messy room and push all the clothes off the bed so I can sit.

    There are shirts in here I haven’t worn since high school. There are shoes held together by duct tape. I take another bag and stuff it full of old junk. I fill it up, but the floor is still covered and I’m now tired. 

    A burst of ambition with no real results.