Life in the Dominican Bodega


Miquelont Murray

It’s where the collapsed cardboard boxes double as entrance mats and liquefy with each footstep that enters.

While the bacon sizzles on the grill, the owner screams at the squirmy 6th graders on their lunch breaks, cursing about the girls who rejected them.

And overcrowded produce aisles are crawling with grumpy cats that stare into your soul, I swear.

From the decoy team of girls that covers for their friend stealing that 75-cent Zebra Cake to the cute guy who hands me the out-of-reach nuddy along with a tropical fantasy soda rumored to kill any sperm count.

And mouth-watering honey buns demand I spend the pocket change I don’t have.

But I do. Oreo Cakesters that I’ll once again regret purchasing follow the tongue-burning French vanilla coffee from the machine that always breaks down by 8:30 a.m.

My choices when I didn’t get breakfast at home: holy grounds of Mangu, salami, and fried cheese or the 50-cent butter roll with a fly embedded neatly inside.

And I eat my body from big to bigger.