Open For Business

The door chimes as a punk-looking teenager takes a peek inside. He's got a stripe of green in his hair, a skateboard under his arm and the words, "MAGNUM OPIATE" splashed across his shirt. I suspect it's the name of some shitty band.

"Are you open?"

"Yeah, but don't try anything."

Behind him, a burning man stumbles down the sidewalk, waving his arms frantically. Nobody stops to help put him out. Normally, I would, but considering the riots and chaos going on today, I can't really take the chance and leave the store unattended, even for a moment. I already had to pull the metal blinds down when a pair of girls in school uniforms threw a concrete block through one of the windows. I'd spent the next hour cleaning up glass.

"Pack of Newports?" says the punk.

"I'm going to need to see some ID."

"Seriously? Come on, man, give me a break."

The Devil Lives on Old Mill Road

I'll never forget the summer of 1986. My father's company sent him overseas to supervise the set up of their new office in Madrid. It had always just been my father and me, but the company would only pay for his accommodations, so it was decided that I would spend the summer with my grandparents in Missouri.

Grandpa Roy was a retired pastor. He had a giant, gray beard and unkempt hair and always reminded me of Dan Haggerty as Grizzly Adams. It seemed like he always had on a red and black tartan work shirt and a scowl. Grandma Babs told me once that he only smiled on Sunday, but I must have never been around when that happened.

Grandma Babs had been a school teacher. She had an anecdote regarding her years teaching for everything that ever came up. Sometimes, she'd tell me stories about the kids she taught that I'd really not want to hear; personal aspects of their lives that I could have gone without ever knowing. She was a thin woman, but had a kindly face that counteracted Grandpa Roy's permanent frown.

Olivia

I received a troubling letter in the mail the other day. It was from my friend, Olivia. The thing is, I'm flying out in just a few days to attend her funeral. The reasons for her death are kind of complicated, made more so by the contents of her letter. I thought I understood why she chose to take her life, but after reading her last letter to me, I just don't know anymore.

You might be wondering why Olivia would write to me. What relationship did we have? We were best friends back in high school and that's really about it. Call it cowardice on my part that I never "officially" told her how I felt. Maybe deep down she knew, but didn't want to lose what we had. I was fine with that. We remained best friends even when college moved us hundreds of miles apart. Even when she met "the love of her life" --a guy named Greg-- she wrote me every week, and I wrote back. We both graduated, she and Greg got an apartment out east, I briefly moved back in with my folks while searching for a job, but through it all, every week I got a letter from Olivia, and a day later I'd mail one back.

Last month, Olivia called me. I knew before even picking up the phone that something was wrong. She would never have called me unless she was in serious trouble or distress and needed someone special to talk to. She was barely understandable through the sobbing and the bursts of crying.