BRAXTON YOUNTS was born in North Carolina. Attending Appalachian State University, nestled in western North Carolina’s Blue Ridge Mountains, fueled his lust for writing. After years of rambling, Braxton settled in Seattle, WA, where he writes prose and poetry.

                                                             last supper


Back East I rented a double-wide in the trailer park down the road. Each day I drove the mile and a half to the grocery store in a beat up blue Dodge. The store was situated on a plot of land that used to be a tobacco farm worked by migrant field hands. Early on humid mornings, the scent of cow manure hung in the air.

Before most customers arrived, it was my job to straighten the cereal on their proper shelves. One day I recognized a couple shopping. I had noticed her many times before. She shopped here often, but never with him. Something was missing. He seemed to have a cast a spell over her. I missed the seductive prance through the store she had once displayed. Now she was subdued and listless.

"Where’s the beer cooler, boy?" he asked me.

"We don’t sell beer on Sundays. It’s the law. Sorry." I replied.

He mumbled something and swaggered off. From then on, I spied on them.

Like a supermodel, she was bony with dark hair and skin. Perusing the freezer section, the erect nipples of her ample breasts pressed tight against the A-R-M-Y screen printed on the heather gray athletic t-shirt she wore. Her husband’s haircut was high and tight, fresh from the barber shears. He was no more than five and a half feet tall and had bowed legs. As they came closer, I paid more attention and saw the painful truth. She walked with a limp and thick makeup couldn’t disguise her bruised cheeks as she picked over moldy melons in the produce section. And when her beau reached out to grab a small, round can of snuff, on his right fist, I spotted a blue-gray swastika tattoo. He then gingerly tucked the snuff in his blue jeans waist band.

"What’s that?" I asked him.

"None of your business, little man!"

He quickly extended his arm into my shoulder. Losing my balance, I caught my hip on a shelf’s corner, and landed on the dusty floor.

With a cart half-empty, they loafed to the check-out counter and endeavored to pay for an economy pack of pork chops, a wilting head of iceberg lettuce, a couple of baking potatoes, and plastic jug of sweet iced tea.

Would I see her again? They stepped out into the Carolina morning and I wanted to say something. I would treat her well, unlike him. In the parking lot, he loaded the motorcycle saddle bags, she wrapped her arms around his waist, and off they sped.

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© 2002 Braxton Younts