I grab a can of Red Bull Blue from the fridge by the register at the 7-11 in Camp Hill, Alabama, and add it to the pork rinds I already have on the counter.
I look at the can. Red Bull. Blue. Summer Edition. Juneberry.
“Oh, Juneberry,” smiles the cashier with a southern lilt. “Ah wonder what that tastes lahk.” She takes another hit from her Marlboro Red, coughs, continues. “Ah’ve been wondering whether ah should get royalties, because, ya know, mah name’s June,” the smoke trickling from her mouth as she speaks.
I glance at her nametag. Sure enough.
June leans toward me, her face almost against the plexiglass barrier that separates her from the customers.
“Ah bet it tastes real good, though, y’know?” she says, dragging out the “real” for long enough to make a point. “Yup, ah bet that Juneberry tastes reeeeal good.”
“Ah definitely look forward to tryin’ it,” I say, my words falling back into the accent I’d worked so hard to remove. I fumble with my wallet, trying desperately not to make eye contact.
“Why you so fidgety, hon?” June says. “Maybe y’all need a little somethin’ to caaaalm yooouuu doooown.” She coughs again, and a bit of cigarette ash lands on my bag of pork rinds.
I hand her my Visa card.
“Listen, June,” I say, finally making eye contact, and removing the ‘southern charm’ from my speech. “I have somewhere to be, and I’m running late, so if you could just…”
“Okay, okay, ah get it,” she says, sliding back my credit card with the receipt and a pen. “Y’all big city muckymucks, drivin’ ’round in your fast cars, always in a hurry. Y’all don’t have time for small-town chit-chat.”
I hand her the signed receipt with the pen, and she gives me a bag with my purchases.
“Ah’ll tell ya, though,” June says over the top of her plexiglass enclosure as I walk away. “Y’all never know how good mah Juneberry tastes!”
I start to respond, but I don’t want to spark further conversation, so I push through the glass door, a bell ringing as I do. I get into my 1970 Chevy Camaro SS — autumn gold — and crank the ignition. The 396cc, 350-horsepower engine roars to life. I take the sweating can of Red Bull out of the bag, pull the tab, and rest it on my leg, wondering what really lies ahead for me an hour down the road, and why I’d decided to come back in the first place.
I raise the Red Bull to my lips and take a long, deep gulp. Damn, that’s good.
Through my bug-splattered windshield I look back inside the 7-11. June is staring out at me. I finish off the Red Bull and raise the can to her. She smiles and blows me a kiss.
As I toss the empty into the 7-11 bag, I notice that, on my faded blue Levi’s, the condensation from the can has left a ring.