Contributor: Jack Hill

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Vanessa and I sat in Taco Bell, a tray of chicken burritos and tacos in front of us, two diet pepsis and a pile of napkins and hot sauce packets - fire sauce. Vanessa stuffed a wad of brown paper napkins into her purse and smiled. I unwrapped a burrito and ripped the hot sauce packet open with my teeth.
The brown sauce dripped down the side of the chicken burrito and over my hand and knuckles and Vanessa said she had to use the bathroom. She slid out of the booth and stumbled and knocked her soda over and the cup rolled off the table and exploded on the tile floor. Brown soda screaming everywhere, down the grooves, between the tiles.
"Fuck!" Vanessa shouted. "Fuck! Fuck! God dammit!"
"It's okay," I said. "They'll clean it up."
Vanessa walked to the condiment bar and grabbed another fistful of napkins and bent over and soaked up soda.
"You're wasting napkins. They'll clean it up. Mop it up."
I stuffed the last third of the burrito into my mouth.
"I got it," she said and dropped another stack of napkins onto the puddle. She used her foot to push the paper pile around over the soda.
A Taco Bell employee - a woman about 50 years old - walked out from behind the counter and said she would grab a mop.
Vanessa nodded and said she was going to the bathroom. I heard her cuss under her breath and I watched her ass shake in her blue yoga pants as she walked away. The small mountain of napkins sat on the floor in the middle of the soda puddle like a volcanic island.


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Jack Hill works in litter abatement, edits Crossed Out Magazine, and lives in Northern California.

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Author: Jack Hill

Contributor: Jack Hill

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Heat rash burned in my ass crack. Thirsty for a diet soda and cigarette. I offered to buy a cigarette from three smokers at three street corners. Pity from being shot down sloshed in until I knotted my fists and stomped the eight blocks home. Black holes for eyes watched me step, knee bones popping.
The coffee can in the kitchen lashed back at me, cutting open my thumb knuckle, when I jerked out a ten dollar bill. Aluminum molasses collapsed under my shoe after five or six attempts. The kicked remains clanked against the stove bottom.
Sold out, the cashier said when I asked for Camel Wides.
Camel lights, I asked her.
Sold out, the cashier said.
All the cigarettes are sold out for you, the cashier said.
What, I asked her.
I know you stole a six pack last week, she said.
I shook my head.
Leave my store, she said.
You have me confused with someone else, I said.
Leave my store, she said.
It wasn't me, I said.
I remember your face, she said.
I wouldn't steal from this store, ever, I said.
You will never buy cigarettes here again, she said.
I would never steal here – this store is in my neighborhood, I said.


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Jack Hill works in litter abatement, edits Crossed Out Magazine, and lives in Northern California.

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Author: Jack Hill