Chili cheese Fritos

I pulled into the Trade Wilco gas station on highway 24 with one goal in mind -- purchasing a bag of Fritos. Chili cheese Fritos.

This is something I should know better than to do. I have some serious health issues. Years of living off of convenience store and vending machine foods will do that to a person. Ahh, the hazards of being a journalist. I was staring at my feet just two mornings ago. I’d worn my socks all night and my legs felt a bit weird. Taking them off in a well-lit room, something I don’t have at my own house, I saw something that scared me a bit. My feet were yellowish. Jaundiced feet? Not a good sign. I’ve gotten used to the color over my eyes. I drink too much. I have liver issues. But feet? That’s reason for concern. At least it was for a few minutes after I took those socks off. Now, here I am at 2 in the morning going into a gas station store to get chili cheese Fritos. Yep, concern is fleeting. Maybe when I die of diabetes or hepatitis, I’ll think to myself “yep, should’ve gotten that checked out sooner.” But, that’s thinking too far ahead. Right now, I just want a bag of Fritos.

I park the car. Inside, a short Italian looking guy looks at me with a long stare. Odd, definitely, I think to myself. Then, I see the woman behind the counter inside. Well, I see her hair. It’s brownish. But it has this weird dyed spot in the front of it. Almost a perfect circle. Right in front for everyone to notice. So, it was definitely on purpose. That kind of fashion statement baffles me. It’s no punk rock thing, this woman is not a punk rocker. The flair on her smock is enough to tell me that. Someone told her she looked good when it was done too. I hope they didn’t believe it. Just said it to not get smacked by those hands. I notice them next. They are meaty. Very meaty. Kind of what I’d imagine a kid of Danny DeVito and John Goodman would have.

I shudder when I think how many things those hands have handled. And by things I mean food.

About the only good thing about this situation right now is the Rolling Stones’ “Happy” from Exile is playing on the radio. An odd choice for a gas station in the middle of bumfuck eastern North Carolina, but I don’t question it. Rolling with it, you could say. Oh, and the Fritos are there, ready to be bought, then consumed by yours truly.

I grab a bag. The Italian looking guy walks over to me.

“You like dem things?” he asks. I try to figure out if I should answer him seriously, or give him the business. Figuring it’s early in the morning/late at night and he could be anyone, I go for serious.

“Yep. Dems good eats,” I say, realizing that I actually am giving him the business and being serious.

“I’m more of a Republican,” I continue.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” the Italian, clearing agitated by my presence, says.

“Guys, guys, let’s all play nice,” strange-haired, behind-the-counter lady says. “I don’t want to be cleaning up any blood.”

Now, that one throws me a bit. I look at her. I look at him. After about 10 seconds of awkward silence, they both start laughing. Loudly.

I amble up to the cash register.

“One bag of Fritos. Two dollars and 98 cents plus tax,” she says.

I look at the bag. It’s clearly marked $2.75. I say nothing. I just want to leave now.

“You’re gonna be thirsty, honey,” she says. “Get some Gatorade or something. Or maybe you want some Four Loko?”

“I thought that stuff was illegal now?” I retort.

“Yeah, but we ordered a bunch before it was. Now it’s all in the back and we sell it to those we think want it.”

“And how do you determine if someone wants it or not?” I ask. “I mean, I didn’t ask for it.”

“Well, late-night Fritos buyers tend to be of the kind that will want some,” she said.

“I’ll pass.”

“Suit yourself honey,” she says with a slight grunt. “You may never get this chance again.”

“Hopefully.”

“What?” she snaps.

“Listen, I just want my Fritos and I’ll be on my way.”

“Well, you can’t have them Fritos. We’re closed.”

“Funny, your sign says OPEN.”

“Sign’s wrong,” Italian speaks up again.

“Well, then, I’ll be going along then.”

“Nope. You’re staying,” she says. Then I hear the distinct shifting of a pump shotgun putting a shell in the chamber.

“Guess I am.”

Ten minutes later, I’m handcuffed to the toilet and my car is on it’s way somewhere that I ain’t. Luckily, she left me with two things -- a foul-mouthed kiss, and a bag of Fritos.

I eat a few while I wait for someone to need to take a pee.

Two hours later, a man named Sam Sanchez finds me. He’s on his way to work and needed a quick pee. Lucky for me, he wasn’t in the mood for anything else.

“Thanks Sanchez,” is all I get a chance to say to the man that found me, called the cops to get me freed and bought me a Coke while we waited. He only spoke French, so we didn’t communicate any more. He replied with “Your welcome Jones.” As he was told by the cops my name was Jones.