Pretend fathers

Three months out of a hospitalization, I walk through the liquor store doors and am hired rightwright awayeyes on my teased up bleached-out hair and piercings, arms with pink scar tissue crawling and zyprexa-puffed cheeks. The owners say to Paul, "Why can't you hire someone normal?" Customers call to complain about pain made visible on my skin. I am given a chance anyway.

I find a home beneath the neon beer signs bagging cheap plastic vodka bottles and punching numbers, counting coins, hands flying on autopilot. I find a voice that snaps and sometimes shouts and hands that gesture to throw men out who leer and speak with broken teeth and booze breath. Even on the sidewalks I am Liquor Store Girl 

I find somewhere to be.

I find fathers, men who tease and scold, who stock coolers and count out drawers, give advice and rides at night. I listen to stories and go to antique car shows and ask about kids and grandkids and diabetes.

I find a tall skinny boy who sketches and pushes his black rimmed glasses up on his nose with the back of his finger, who loves gory movies and cats and cooking.

I try to come a girl who can be loved, who is good enough. I face the dollar bills all the right way. As if a person can be built behind a sticky scarred countertop, and in the eyes of the drunk and lonely, and there will be fathers who don't leave and there won't be just another girl to replace me at the end of the night.