Fickle Reality, or That Explains a Lot
Fickle Reality, or That Explains a Lot
by David Michael
As George walked down to the Quik-Quik to get himself a wild cherry lemon-lime smoothie, the store became the Kwik-Go-Mart. The aging glass-and-steel architecture of the convenience store morphed along with the name, becoming more bulbous, more organic, the steel trim becoming shaped wood, the windows tinting to turn the light of the sun into a warm heat. Hing Pugyen, the Vietnamese owner behind the counter changed, as well, into Op Ginh. No longer Vietnamese, because the world no longer had a Vietnam. No longer even human, but now one of the lizard-like Ang’Mor’Ish’A space aliens that crash landed decades before. Op Ginh didn’t own the Kwik-Go-Mart. He just worked there, day shift.
George didn’t notice. He pulled open the door, annoyed yet again that the doors didn’t open automatically for him. He ignored the lizardman behind the counter, went straight to the fountain drinks section in the back.
“No wild cherry lemon-lime smoothies?” George asked without turning around. Then he felt stupid. Kwik-Go-Mart’s didn’t offer wild cherry lemon-lime smoothies. Nobody did. Ugh. Who would?
Behind him, still at the check out counter, Op Ginh echoed his thoughts, hissing, “That’sss disssgussting.”
George decided to forego a smoothie, grabbed a 44-ounce fountain cup and pulled the tap to fill up with root beer. Before the cup had filled, the Kwik-Go-Mart had become the Kum-N-Run. Op Ginh remained, but he owned the place now, and hosted poker games in the back room for George and some of the other locals. That lizard face of his made him hard to read, but he wasn’t any better at reading the fleshy, warm faces of humans, so it worked out.
“We playing tonight?” George asked, turning around. He took a sip of his drink. And spit it out. Root beer.
“Ssshit, George,” Op Ginh said. “Did you come in here just to ssspit on my floor?”
“Sorry, Op. Somehow I got …” George stopped. “I didn’t know you even served root beer.”
“I don’t,” Op Ginh said.
“Well … hang on.” George wrinkled his nose and sniffed at the cup in his hand. “It’s just cola now. Weird. It tasted–and smelled!–like root beer just a second ago.”
“How long you been up, George?” Op Ginh asked. “Do I need to cut you off already?”
George laughed. “Probably. Since I can’t seem to hold my cola.”
George stood at the counter now. He put the cup of cola on the counter and reached for his wallet. George became Gina, and pulled her purse around in front of her, so she could dig out the change and pay the little man behind the counter for her drink. She didn’t know his name, since he had only been working there for a week or so, but he looked familiar for some reason. She realized she was staring at him, and pulled her eyes away. He didn’t know her name either, but that didn’t stop him from leering at her, angling to look down her shirt as she pulled out the money.
Gina gave the clerk an acid look and dropped the coins on the counter top. She picked up her coffee, annoyed at how cold it was. This place, the Quik-E-Run, always served lousy coffee.
Copyright © 2006 by David Michael. All rights reserved.
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