Rubber (ManxBoy)

Rubber

People call it dry notes. But it’s hardly dry in my hands because my sweaty palms are soaking it.

“Can I help you?” her voice makes me relax, she sounds like mommy. Maybe she’s a mommy too, “You have a prescription I can look into?” the question is directed to me, yet her eyes are looking at my twitching palm, “Are you buying for a family member? Do you have their health insurance?” she sounds serious now, I give a small shrug, “If so, I might need an ID for verification.”

She is wearing green scrubs. And her lips are red. Very red. Her colors make me think of Christmas and Santa’s little helpers.

“You look frightened,” her face falls, “Is it for an emergency?” she sounds like she is about to cry. I don’t like her look. She makes me feel like I’m a pauper. And I’m not.

“You are much too young to be buying medication all by yourself. Are you lost?”

What’s with all the questions? I’m not here to buy medicine. And I’m not a child. I’m fifteen now. I’m considered an adult in America!

“I’m fine. I’m just looking around,” I say, stowing my twitchy palm, “I don’t need your help.”

My words push her back, making her lean back and cross her arms over her chest, not breasts because hers are much too small.

One of her pencil-lined eyebrows goes up, like she is questioning me. I raise an eyebrow too.

I put pressure on the balls of my feet and sway my body with my arms behind my back. I start whistling while craning my head and looking behind her, past her, through her, wanting her to feel that I might have found what I’m looking for. I just wanna be left alone.

In my peripheral I can see her lift her index finger and tap her chin twice, cocks her head to the side, and glares at me before turning to walk back where she came from. I don’t see her eyes as she walks away, but I can feel them saying I’m watching you.

I don’t like being watched. Especially when I’m about to do what I came here to do.

I slide my way into the aisles, customers disappearing in and out of view, taking what they need in their hands, while others carry a basket which they fill with bottles of shampoo, tubes of lotion, and some other bathroom essentials.

I inject my presence and share in their activity, their busyness becoming my camouflage as I blend in like a thief.

I forget about the eyes of the lady in green scrubs as I become part of the scene, with these people doing what normal people do in everyday life, which is minding their own business.

I lift my attention to the overhead placards designated above each aisle, telling which corner is which and what products can be found in the shelves below them.

Just a packet. Just one. That’s all I need.

I clutch the paper bill in my hand, my nervousness turning into sweat, making the quality of the paper clammy and fragile.

The new dollar bills just came out the other day, and I remember my daddy handing my sister and my older brother a dry note each, with the number one followed by two zeros.

Lucky them. I only have a single digit on this piece of dry note, plus a few quarters jangling below the loose pocket of my Jammy Dodgers JimJam pajama bottoms.

Damn. I can’t seem to find what I’m looking for. I know what it looks like, but I can’t find it. The overhead placards are of little help either because they’re not in alphabetical order like in my school’s library.