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a finalist in
the Sacramento News & Review 2009 Flash Fiction contest
“I don’t have
a lot of money,” I told the liquor-store clerk. He knows me; we go way
back. “But that doesn’t mean I’m willing to sacrifice on quality.”
“How much do you have?”
I held up a handful of coins. “$2.34.”
He reached for a miniature bottle of Smirnoff. “This is the best I can
do.”
“No.” I shook my head. “It’s really too small. What else do you have?”
“Nothing, nothing at all, except … no.”
“What?”
He sighed and pulled a liter bottle from under the counter. The label
was Russian. “I don’t know if you’re ready. It’s made from turnips.”
“What’s it like?”
“It’s a low-born vodka, sullen with a harrowing finish. It’s the kind of
tipple you’d want along on a cold November morning if you were stripping
wallpaper in Minsk.”
“How much?”
“$1.17.”
I did the math. “I’ll take two.”
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