One Second After [21]
"Hey, Hamid, how are you?"
Hamid had proven to be a fascinating addition to the town. He was Pakistani, married to a local girl, and purchased the store a few months before 9/11. Two days after "that day" the FBI had shown up and arrested him, claiming that there was a report that he had made a statement in support of the attack and would love to help out if anything was tried locally.
The arrest, to John's delight, had triggered a firestorm. The town turned out, rallied support, harassed the daylights out of the district's congressman to investigate, and finally Hamid had returned, a block party being held for him.
On the morning after his return, a huge hand-lettered sign was plastered across the window of his store. "I am proud to be an American. ... God bless all of you, my friends."
Hamid was behind the counter; in fact, John suspected he damn near lived in his store.
"Crazy out there," Hamid said. "I had to stay here all night. People coming in from the highway. It's been nuts."
"How about a couple of cartons of Camel Lights?" John said. Hamid shook his head.
John rattled off several more brands until finally he got a hit with Kool Lights.
"Still got three cartons." "I'll take 'em."
John pulled out his wallet and started to draw out his bank card. "John, that's down, you know." "Oh yeah."
He pulled out some cash, fifty dollars, still twenty dollars short. "Just pay me later today; I know you're good for it." He hesitated before taking the cartons.
"Hey, look, Hamid, I think I gotta tell you this first. You've always been a good guy to me. I'm not even sure about giving you money at the moment. Things might be a whole lot worse than it looks right now."
Hamid looked at him quizzically.
"What do you mean, John?"
He pointed to the money on the counter.
"I mean that."
"The money?" And he laughed. "Maybe in my old country, but here, American money? You're kidding?"
"Just that I felt I had to tell you, the price of cigarettes might be a whole helluva lot more than twenty three bucks a carton in a few days."
Hamid took it in and, smiling, he pushed the cartons across to John.
"Thanks, John, I see your point, but take them, my friend."
John breathed a sigh of relief. At the moment he'd have emptied his wallet for one pack, but now he could take them without feeling guilty.
"Thanks, Hamid."
John took the cartons and looked around the store. Nearly all the beer was gone, most of the soda as well. Munchies, chips, pork rinds, all gone. Hamid laughed.
"Best night of business I've ever done. Must have a couple thousand in cash here."
"Hamid, do yourself a favor." "What?"
"Take down the rest of your cigarettes and stash them." "Why?"
"Just call it an investment, a hedge on inflation." Hamid shook his head.
"Can't do that. Maybe for strangers from the highway, but my friends here?"
John smiled.
"Just a friendly suggestion, Hamid. Stash them away; from now on, if you want to sell them to friends, do so just one pack at a time."
Leaving Hamid, who as soon as John was out the door began to pull the cartons off the display rack, he drove another block to the center of town, again weaving around the stalled cars, and turned up Montreat Road, usually the route of his daily commute to the college. The fire station and police station were on his right and there was a moderate-size crowd there, all looking in his direction. He pulled in, got out of his car, this time locking it and pocketing the keys.
"Hey, John, how the hell did you get that old beast rolling?"
It was Charlie Fuller, the town's director of public safety, which made him head of both the fire department and the police department. He was also a long-standing member of their Civil War Roundtable and often John's chief antagonist when it came to debates about the Constitutional justice of the Southern cause.
John looked around at the open parking area. All the fire engines were hangared