Ten

The next morning, after getting the kids out the door, I worked out at the local YM/YWHA. I’ve been trying to do that more often these days, but things like work, children and a generally lazy attitude tend to get in the way.

After the workout, I walked into the Kwik’N EZ store on Edison Avenue, headed for the back, and selected a bottle of spring water. I tried not to stand too close to the guy behind the counter, since I figured I wasn’t smelling my best at the moment.

Kwik ‘N EZ, despite its appalling spelling, is the kind of convenience store you’d expect in Midland Heights—that is, it features fresh, unusual produce, it has lactose-free everything, and is so organic you can practically smell the manure. Still, the guy behind the counter could easily tell you where the Spam was, or direct you to the Tastykake area. There is a limit to how upscale a convenience store can go.

The cashier was maybe 30, thin and bored, but without the tattoos and body piercings you might expect. He leaned over the counter, waiting. At this time of the morning, there weren’t many people in the store.

“Can I speak to the owner?” I asked.

Not a flicker. “You are,” he said.

“You’re the owner?”

He resisted the impulse to overstate the obvious and mock me. But he thought about it first. Being at least a decade younger than me and actually owning his own profit-making business gave him a certain advantage. “That’s right. Something I can do for you?”

I put the water bottle on the counter and reached into my denim jacket for my wallet. But before he had time to ask why I needed the owner to buy a bottle of water, I pointed to a box on the counter.

“How long have you been selling these?” I asked. The box, open to make its contents more accessible, bore a logo that read “STINK BOMBS! The Ultimate Smell Weapon!”

“We just got them in a month or so ago,” he said. “Why?”

I picked one up and looked at it. For something called a “bomb,” it was small, and wrapped in brown paper that bore the same logo, with a line drawing of a kid holding his nose. “I remember when you had to make your own,” I said.

“Thanks for the nostalgia. The water’s a buck and a quarter.” The wrapper even had instructions for how to use the stink bomb—kids can’t even make a bad smell without reading about it first, it seems.

I reached into my wallet and gave him two singles. He started to make change. “You been getting complaints about these?” I asked about the little wonders. Anne Mignano had mentioned that parents thought the offending item had been purchased here.

“Yeah,” he said, handing me three quarters. “But the kids buy them.”

“You wouldn’t be able to name any of the kids who buy them, would you?”

“Stink bombs don’t require ID,” he smirked. “Anybody can buy one.”

“What do they do with them after they buy them from you?”

He shrugged. “That’s their business.”

“You know, three of these things have gone off in the elementary school in the past week. That’s a bunch of eight-year-olds who couldn’t use the boy’s bathroom for three days.” I thought maybe underlining the severity of the crime might soften the businessman’s heart.

“Whatcha gonna do?” A wolfish grin broke out on his face.

In accordance with the instructions, I opened the wrapping on the stink bomb and twisted it. “This,” I said, and threw it into the back of the store. Smoke started to emanate from it as the counter guy ran for the bomb. I left the seventy-five cents on the counter and walked out the front door.