Joe on Tuesday

That morning Joe was in a Starbucks, because he wanted coffee, and when he voted with his dollar he voted for convenience and minimal corporate evil as opposed to small business owners and gourmet coffee and the total absence of corporate evil. There was a line, during which time Joe briefly toyed with the idea of buying a scone.

“I’d like a grande Americano,” Joe said, and paid.

While he was waiting for his drink he watched the barista work the espresso machine. She was old enough to be his mother, which struck Joe as atypical, and her skin was a couple of shades lighter than Joe’s, which was extremely typical. Nobody up in his neck of the woods ever seemed to have gotten enough sun.

“Would you like the extra shot?” she asked, surprising Joe. He could have run for the door, because she might have been trying to distract him, keep him from seeing the snipers. Instead he made sure she was talking to him.

“Excuse me?”

“The new machines always make two shots at a time. You don’t want it it’ll just go to waste.” The barista pointed (her slightly wrinkled hands were easily the oldest-looking part of her that Joe could see) at the espresso machine, which, it took Joe a moment to realize, was bulkier and shinier and presented fewer options than the espresso machines he’d seen in the past.

“Sure,” he said, not wanting to rock the boat. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” the barista said, adding the extra shot to his drink. “Everybody’s lucky today.”

Joe forced a smile and small chuckle. “We’ll see.” He took the coffee and left. There wasn’t a sidewalk, but it didn’t matter; he was just going across the street.

The street in question was six lanes, with a light but without a crosswalk – this part of town really wasn’t set up for pedestrians – and Joe figured he would have to cross halfway and stand in the turning lane and hope motorists noticed him. Instead the lights turned red as he approached the intersection, and he didn’t have to break stride as he looked both ways and stepped out into the road.

The asphalt hadn’t been resurfaced since Reagan was in office, and they hadn’t done a very good job of it then; the tires of countless commuters and shoppers had worn waves in each lane, rolling up and down, likewise sloping up to the road’s crown and back down again. Joe trod with care nevertheless.

The cars started moving again just as Joe stepped off the road and onto the grass strip demarcating the edge of the parking lot on the far side of the street; either he had just hit the light or else it had turned green while he was still partway over and the motorists had been forced to wait. Joe turned and would have smiled gratefully at the cars that he’d held up, but by the time he’d turned around they were all down the road and out of sight.

Crossing the parking lot took longer than Joe had expected; he was used to traversing small lots in urban centers with a lot foot traffic, or else big lots with a car. Still, he made it to the Wal-Mart with plenty of time to spare.

“Morning!” the greeter said to him.

“It’s everyone’s lucky day,” Joe replied, which got him only a blank smile.

Joe headed to electronics, where the televisions were already on and ready. He sipped his coffee and listened to the prayer.

“Help us, oh God, to remember that we are Americans, united not by race or religion or blood, but to our commitment to freedom and justice for all,” said the television.

“I thought I’d find you here,” said the Devil.

“Go away,” said Joe.