I pulled the red edge of my debit card from the small black credit-card-carrier after thumbing past assorted identification, a variety of audio/video/literary membership and way-over-the-limit credit cards. The old Formica counter-top stopped several of the fluttering cards once they sprang from their leather confinement, cascading haphazardly across the age-worn and nicotine-stained surface. Frustrated, I tossed the card in my right hand amidst the scattered pile realizing that this, too, had been exhausted. My one good credit card, the one I needed, had continued its spiraling journey across the coconut-colored island, over the precipice at the far side and, now, lay at the feet of the gaunt, but sturdy, dark-skinned man wearing a Mississippi string-tie.
The light from the bodega's Contac-paper, stained-glass window festered in the divots of the man's acne-scarred face, which seemed to prefer to reflect the bright lavenders and dark purples above the crimson and azure tints that touched-down round-about the interior of the store. He shot me a contemptuous look, as if I had taken some deliberate action in order to place him in a subservient position.
"You're going to miss your flight", he said as I stuffed the cards back into their sleeve. He calmly continued, "It is imperative that you make this connection in order for you to fulfill your obligation." And his, "You do understand that, …don't you" was more statement of fact than rhetorical question.
I glanced in the direction of his feet knowing he knew my thoughts. If time is such a pressing matter to him, he could simply retrieve my last tangible financial resource for me versus my walking all the way down the aisle - past the bags of plaintain chips and six-packs of ginger beer around the end-cap where foot-tall votive candles of Mary and Jesus were found and back, up past hand-tied, twine-bound stacks of periódicos to the place where he stood, right now, among los libros cómicos just to bend over at his feet to pick up the only VISA card I had left that wasn't over its limit, then make trip all the way back to where I am standing at this very moment in time (which seems so precious to him) rather than just bend over and pick the card up and hand it to me himself.
Once again he glared at me. As he turned around and looked downward to spot the card I noticed the same colors playing on the nappy curls at the back of his head.
SNAP!
My attention was immediately drawn to his thumb pressing hard against my card as he placed it in the middle of the empty space before me. I never saw him bend over.
When it was my turn at the register, I made small talk in Spanish. I motioned slightly over my left shoulder toward the black man standing next to the comic books and asked the guy if he'd ever actually seen the Devil.
He replied in un-broken, white-bread, suburban-American English, "Yeah, but whenever he talks to me," he paused briefly, glancing slightly to his right, then leaned forward and said in a low voice, "…he always looks like a white guy."