Bodega Cigarette Hustle

"Seven twenty-five please," she said, not looking me in the eye. My smile faded. "What?" She must think that I've got a paper and a Gatorade or something. "No, just the cigarettes."

"Yes, I know. Seven twenty-five."

She sort of growled and held out her hand.

"What, is that like a dollar for every year they've sat around your dusty-ass bodega growing mold? Are these magic cigarettes? You know what? Fuck this," I said, confident in the fact that I was about to lose it and do something I wouldn't be proud of in a little while. "You slick-ass people have been ripping your customers off for a long time...at least as long as I've been coming here. Your prices change daily and they're always way fucking marked up. What, do the cigarette companies have a special deal this week?one pack for the price of two? This is the only place in the city where you actually have to count your change when you leave. Always missing a nickel or a dime, 'cause you all is some shifty motherfuckers."

"I don't know sir," she says all cold and distant, "I'm just cashier here."

"Naw, fuck that. That innocence bit won't work on me. And besides it doesn't apply to the situation. If you're the cashier, then everything has got a set price and it's your job to quote that price to the customer and take money and provide correct fucking change for the money they give you, right? Well, you change the prices all the time and you shortchange me all the time. So let me speak to the manager," I say, all defiant and on a roll 'n' shit.

"I am manager," she says.