Hey, Robbie, he calls down the aisle, bumping through the front door with a box of second-hand stock, lock up and clear the register. He slams the door shut with his hip. Coming up the aisle, his pointed silver-toed boots clack like goats’ hooves on the tiles. He dumps the box down on the counter in front of me. Go on, baby, lock up, he says. No-one’s dumb enough to shop in this weather. He turns, squinting back along the aisle towards the big plate glass windows at the front of the store. A bright orange poster in Jesus’s handwriting says: ¡AY, QUE PADRE! New CDs from JUST $5! & VINTAGE vinyl!! Apart from that, the big panes are empty. We both stare at the back of the poster; me, because my eyes are following his; him, I don’t know why. The reverse letters are easy to read with the sun lighting up the paper. He turns the background music off and the afternoon traffic-roar rolls in with the sun. Tomorrow, clean the windows, man, he says.
