Pursuit

HUSH! Everyone, RIGHT NOW! Listen, a song plays in the distance. QUICK, jump from the sofa and LOOK outside. Straight, right, left. THERE IT IS! Grab wallet and run down street. Shoes off, flesh against tarmac. Heal toe, heal toe, heal toe. No, ball foot, ball foot, ball foot (unsure now). I could be a highland native who lives south of this nation's border and runs in leather sandals. My feet bear nothing except their own epidermis like those minimal people who exercise with exposed peds (at least in public). FOCUS! The driver pulls away. Pant, pant, pant. WAIT! Forget to pause and check intersection forntraffic. Wave arms high. Brake lights appear. I land on a curb, toes hanging over. I wipe beads of sweat from my forehead. Rivers flow down the driver's brow. "It's 167 degrees inside here." He's hot, but happy because today marks his return to a southern oasis. Last year he left for a less affluent location in the north, thinking he was doing the right thing. There, he says, people stole his inventory. They ripped hundreds of bucks worth of bars and ice pops from this van with a (creepy for some) music loop singing through a rooftop speaker. "Today someone gave me a fake twenty-dollar bill." I feel bad and listen to his story. I attempt to hear him more than my internal auto-play soundtrack. I interrupt, still high from my bolt down the avenue. Do you have a 50-50 bar? The one with vanilla ice cream wrapped in orange? THAT'S WHAT I WANT BUT I DON'T SEE IT POSTED. He points down the passenger door to a poster inches from my nose.