Midnight Wire Transfer

by Jilly Dybka

for Scott C. Holstad

Sparkle Mart has a dirty floor. Pockmarked
stains that bleach can't reach. The front door is streaked
with fingerprints, and the counter shows
two worn spots from the cashier's elbows.

It is midnight and a man in a red
work shirt and boots needs some money transferred.
I'm standing in line (behind) and hear him
say something about wiring it for bail. Slim

chance I'll ever see it again, that bitch.
Woman must have it in her head that I'm rich.
I have in my hand a Q of cold beer,
though it is a weekday night. It's clear

to me that it will be a while, so I
stare down at my feet, and think about my
car. The mainseal's shot and I have to put
oil in it constantly--leaks right out.

Red shirt man is talking loud; he is drunk
I think. Or maybe he's on some kind of junk
like crank or meth. That's when I hear the shot.
I feel the need to pee my pants. A lot.

The cashier is standing with a blue steel
revolver and red shirt man's shirt is real
red now. He has a knife in his hand, yet
he doesn't know it anymore. I get

the hell out of there and don't step inside
Sparkle Mart ever again. That guy died.
When I hear that old redneck joke again
about bringing a knife to a gun fight then

I think of red shirt man's shirt getting redder.

©2005 Jilly Dybka

Jilly Dybka is a student in the low-residency creative writing MFA program at Queens University of Charlotte. She lives in Cheatham County, Tennessee, with her jazz musician husband Darryl. Visit her blog.