Nacirema

[Brackie]

"Hi luv, what'll you have?"

"Cafe Mocha with soy, thanks."

"That'll be 3.50."

--

"Hey Pen-ster, how's life?"

"Eh, alright. Essays due tomorrow, only half done, you know the drill. You got the stuff?"

"Sure thing, got your Ritalin right here. And lemme just check heeeere... man, you pre-paid? I don't even remember that, most chicks don't trust me like that, especially not locals, but alright."

"Mm."

"Here you go, don't do anything I wouldn't."

"Thanks. Give my regards to Rowan."

--

"Welcome to Spinbird Records."

"You got any Decemberists?"

"Oh hey, you're that American chick on the phone. Yeah, we have the latest one right here, held it just for you, 'cause you asked so nicely."

"I really appreciate this, thanks."

"No problem at all, anything for a future customer! That's 23.99."

--

"Hi there."

"Packet of JPS Menthol, please."

"20s or 30s?"

"30s."

"Alright here you go, that's 17.50."

"Well that's a ripoff."

"You're right, I'll just go and make a complaint to the Tobacco company in my special tobacco phone."

"That's rude."

"Listen lady, I don't get paid enough to sit here and listen to everyone complain about cigarette prices. Take your smokes, piss off."

--

It was a surprisingly humid day in Dublin, at least it would have been if Penny Huang hadn't grown up in Seattle all her life. Exiting the petrol station, Penny stripped the plastic from the box cover, took out a solitary death stick, and lit it. A few inhalations later, she squeezed the filter until she felt the familiar snap, and took in another breath. It was like smoking a tube of toothpaste, but without it she could only gag.

She stood by the rear of the petrol station as she finished her cigarette, watching the people go by. She technically wasn't allowed by law to be smoking at a petrol station, but the clerk was rude and she was quick. A few minutes later, she was done, and the remains of the cigarette was smooshed beneath her heel.

The bus stop was only a few minutes away, The Northern Ireland Tourist Board, so she walked briskly, ducking back into the alleyways Dublin called streets. Penny hated these, she'd hated them ever since she moved here, but you couldn't go through Ireland without them. She wanted to be able to see above her eye-line, and unless you were near the airport that wasn't happening.

As the bus stop blurred into sight, so did a gaggle of teenage girls. Penny could overhear them, but not understand them. Their accents were heavy, but the tone was just the same and just as familiar as American teenagers. The closer she got, she slower she strolled - she didn't want to overtake them. She watched them for a while, just how they moved, how they emoted, how they laughed. Two of them were fiery redheads, three of them dark brunettes, but one caught her eye. She had shoulder-length golden blonde hair.

They were walking to the same bus station Penny was, so she just watched as she walked. It couldn't have been for long, but Penny realized how long it actually was. She shook her head and focused on the cobblestone footpath. It would be quite a story for the girls to tell, that they were being creeped on by a weird American chick carrying a coffee that smelled like turned milk in one hand, a weird circular object in her other, and a fistful of drugs and cigarettes in her handbag. But it wouldn't have been true - Penny wasn't even remotely staring at the group of girls.

Just the blonde one.

She looked like Stacy.