Can I ask you a question?

Early evening, about 6:30 or so. I am behind the counter at the liquor store, staring out the window. Two and a half hours until closing time.

Guy comes in the door. Sad, anxious but resigned face in grimy jeans and a t-shirt. “Hey, how ya doin’?” is my standard greeting for anyone who walks in. He does not respond.

He looks over the various bottles in the rum aisle, settling on a 375 ml bottle of Bacardi gold.

“That gonna be it today?”

Yep, he sighs, quietly.

“$7.25.”

He hands me a ten-dollar bill. I watch him as I get his change. He’s staring through the floor, his mind elsewhere, hands in pockets. Then, back to reality, he looks at me and speaks.

“Can I ask you a question,” he says. His voice is resigned anger, like the moment you accept that your wife doesn’t love you anymore, or you’re slowly dying of cancer, or some other grave inevitable calamity that’s about to happen.

“What would you do if you found out you were going to prison for a while?”

Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck, please don’t be robbing me or planning some grand murder-suicide, I think to myself. I’ve been working here for a while now without any psychos coming in. Drunk people stumbling in the aisles, yes. People with no command of English wondering what I want when I say ‘may I see your ID,’ yes. But possible suicidal maniacs? This is the first. What do I say to him?

‘I know what I wouldn’t do: rob a liquor store,’ is the first thing I thought of. Too smart-ass, he’d definitely kill you then. How about ‘I’d ask a friend or confidant, and not a liquor store clerk, for advice.’ Nah, same thing….okay, I’ve got something.

“Well, sir, that’s a tough question. I’m not sure what I would do if I were in that situation.”

“Yeah…” he trails off, returning to his own cloudy thoughts to mull over his not-so-bright future. I bag his bottle and give it to him.

He walks, head down, through the exit door.