The store owner, his balding head gleaming under the fluorescent lights of our local 7-11, shook his broom handle at us. He thought he looked threatening, but how can one really take seriously a 5-foot-nothing, 60-year-old Korean man sporting a Backstreet Boys t-shirt? I mean, really. Isn’t there some sort of limit to how old someone has to be before they stop trying to be pop culture savvy? Plus, everyone knew that BSB were on their way out, to be replaced with the shiny new boyband version. NYNC forever, dude.
“Cade. Dude. You gonna pay for that shit? Coz Han-gook over there looks ready to call the po-po on us and I’m not goin’ back to juvie, man.”
I glanced at Terence over the stack of munchies I held in my arms. Sticking out from various pockets of my black trench coat were candy bars and bottles of soda. I guess I looked a bit suspicious. Perhaps a cart would have been a smart idea.
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