He grabs a Red Bull from the fridge by the register at the BP in Camp Hill, Alabama, and adds it to the pork rinds and plain M&Ms he already has on the counter.
Red Bull. Blue. Summer Edition. Juneberry.
“Oh, Juneberry,” said the cashier, smiling. “I wonder what that tastes like.” She takes another hit from her Marlboro Red, coughs a little, continues. “I’ve been wondering whether I should get royalties, because, you know, my name’s June,” the smoke trickling from her mouth as she speaks.
He glances at her nametag. Sure enough.
June leans toward him, her face almost against the plexiglass barrier that separates her from the customers.
“I bet it tastes real good, though, you know?” she says, dragging out the “real” for long enough to make a point. “Yup, I bet that Juneberry tastes reeeeal good.”