It was Iskra’s first day on the job, and Miles, the owner of Three Rivers Pharmacy, was giving her a tour of the register.
“Smaller bills go here,” he said, indicating the slots for ones, fives, tens, twenties, and fifties, “but Benjamins go underneath.” He lifted the cash tray. “Not that we get many in this neighborhood.”
“Benjamins?” Iskra said.
“Hundreds.”
Iskra studied the layout of the cash drawer, focusing on the denominations, not the men depicted on the bills. If she cared for history, she would have stayed in Croatia, a place where people chose to live in the past. She’d come close to doing so herself. Had she signed that contract, she’d now be teaching high-schoolers the fatiguing lessons of history to distract them from the present. Instead, the turn of the millennium felt like the right time to start fresh. Iskra chose what she had always wanted: America, a land of shiny skyscrapers and glossy-maned movie stars, a place without baggage.
Iskra already had a morning job watering plants in a skyscraper downtown, but she needed a second income and had stumbled upon the pharmacy’s Help Wanted sign the day before while exploring her new South Side neighborhood. Now, a trolley slogging by outside reminded her of Zagreb streetcars. She felt a pang of nostalgia and cringed. How dare she miss her hometown, after the incredible luck of winning the green card lottery?
Miles opened the cabinet under the register and handed Iskra a gray pouch with National City written in emerald letters.
“At the end of the day, everything goes in here.” He panted as he stood up, pulling his pants over his big belly. “You lock the front door, count the money, write it down, bring everything to me.”
Instead of answering, she nodded, though her English was more than adequate. In an effort to relax the rigid syntax she learned in school, she’d spent years soaking up real-life expressions from subtitled movies and TV shows and the rap songs she recorded on cassettes from the radio, which she then transcribed in choppy bouts of rewind and fast-forward. But since she’d landed on American soil two weeks ago, the language coming from the mouths of natives sounded different, the cadences fast, the rhythm unfamiliar. She grew sheepish and spoke only when she had to.
“It’s ironic,” Miles said, wiping the bald top of his head with a hanky, “having you work the front.”
“Excuse me?” Iskra said.
“A skinny, pretty girl, selling nicotine and junk food.”
“This is no problem,” she said. “I work very hard.”
“Right.” Miles looked at her like a halting scanner, turning away every now and then, absorbing her in spurts. It was awkward. As soon as he headed toward the rear of the pharmacy, to his computer behind the shelf of prescriptions in white paper bags, Iskra started to clean. She sprayed the register keys and wiped them off with paper towels. Back home, pharmacies smelled of printing paper, minty cough drops, chamomile creams. Miles’s pharmacy was unkempt, haphazard, and grimy, not what she expected from America.
The phone rang. “Three Rivers Pharmacy,” Iskra answered again and again. A couple of times she accidentally hung up instead of transferring the call to Miles. When the nurses called back, puffing into the receiver, her cheeks burned.
A boy came in and asked for what sounded like a “sucker.” Iskra looked at him blankly; he kept pointing behind her. “Cigarettes?” she said. He laughed, but Iskra had no idea what he wanted until he hoisted himself up on the counter and grabbed a lollipop from the shelf behind her.
“Sucker,” he said, waving the candy in her face. It felt like he’d called her a name.
When the day outside descended into deep blue and the wall clock read 8:00 p.m., Iskra locked up. She was counting the bills in the register when someone knocked on the back door.
She heard Miles say, “Alejandro, my man.”
A head of thick black hair came into view behind the prescription shelf. “Gordo, I’ve got lots of good stuff for you today.”
After she tallied the bills on a piece of paper, she put the cash and the front door key in the gray National City pouch and walked down the aisle to the back of the pharmacy, the linoleum creaking beneath her heavy, rubber-soled creepers. The thick-haired man emerged from behind the shelf with a handful of inhalers, smelling of heavy cologne. He was tall and thin and wore a lilac shirt, a busy tie with a gold pin, and a gray suit, shimmery like fish scales.
“Hola, guapa,” he said.
She didn’t understand, but his tone reminded her of construction workers back home, catcalling as she walked to the streetcar stop.
“Gordo,” he said, turning to Miles, “when did you start running a modeling agency here?”
Iskra felt like rolling her eyes but smiled politely. She’d save the back talk until she had a few months of employment under her belt. Brushing past Alejandro, she placed the money pouch on the counter next to a mound of tiny plastic pill bottles.
“Thanks, Ashkra.” Miles stopped counting pills. “This is Dr. Fuentes, good buddy of mine.”
“Iskra,” she said, extending her hand for a shake.
Alejandro set the nebulizers on the counter. “Whoa, nice grip. You from the Amazon?”
“Cro-Asia,” Miles said.
“You sure, Gordo?” Alejandro said. “She doesn’t look Asian to me.”
“Croatia is in Europe,” Iskra said. “But it’s new and small. So.”
“Interesting,” Miles said, corralling a few loose pills so they wouldn’t roll off the counter.
“Ah, we’re neighbors,” Alejandro said. “Or close enough. I’m from Spain. Not Mexico or one of those.”
“Okay,” Iskra said. No wonder he looked like one of those cocky, gelled-up Real Madrid footballers. “See you tomorrow, Miles.”
“Thanks, Ashkra,” Miles said, patting the top of his head with a hanky. “Nice work today.”
“Iskra,” she said lightly, turning to the coat hook by the back door. Her pale yellow puffer cut in at the waist where her Levi’s 501s continued. The outfit was her approximation of a getup she’d seen the Salt-N-Pepa ladies wearing on MTV.
“Wait,” Alejandro said. “I was going to grab dinner at Nona. Come with?”
Nona Osteria was the restaurant across the street. With its yellow-and green-striped awning, white tablecloths, and servers in black vests and bowties, it looked out of place in the otherwise rundown neighborhood. Iskra zipped her coat, considering the offer. Fancy food in a fancy restaurant with an arrogant doctor, or a baloney sandwich in her mostly empty apartment? Two weeks ago and an ocean away, the choice would have been easy. Turning down cocky suiters had been Iskra’s pastime. But her English was not clever yet, and she did want to see the inside of that restaurant. She’d lusted for America for so long, had grown gluttonous from afar, and now that she was here, she couldn’t stop bingeing. Her jeans and turtleneck probably weren’t appropriate for such a nice place, but she wasn’t going to give Dr. Fuentes the satisfaction, or the wrong idea, by asking for reassurance. She shrugged in acceptance.
Alejandro brightened. “Gordo, you can finish up here, right?”
“Oh. Okay.” Miles managed a smile.
“Let us out the front?” Alejandro said.
“Sure.” Miles fumbled with the money pouch, looking for the key.
At the door, Iskra slid past Miles as Alejandro led the way. Across the narrow street, he held the door open for her, placing a hand on the small of Iskra’s back until she recoiled.
It was dark and quiet inside. On the tables, stemmed wine glasses glimmered in the flicker of tea candles; the smell of bread and tomatoes wafted in the air. A man in black came out from behind a lectern to shake Alejandro’s hand. “Good evening, Dr. Fuentes. Your table is ready.”
Alejandro turned to Iskra, spoke in her ear. “I’m here most nights.”
“No wife, Dr. Fuentes?” she said.
“Yes wife. And un chiquito. They have their own routines.”
As they sat, Fuentes dismantled the linen swan on his plate and placed it in his lap. Iskra followed suit, eager to learn American good manners.
“And for you”—he placed a palm on his chest— “Alejandro, please.”
Iskra shrugged.
“I meet colleagues here,” he went on. “Pharmaceutical reps, movers and shakers, people in the know.”
“In the know?”
“People who get it. How things work,” he said. “And who appreciate good tiramisu.” He winked at the waiter who replied with a small, professional smile.
“Hm,” Iskra said. She made this sound a few more times during the evening. It was all Alejandro needed to keep going with his monologue, which included a name-dropping litany of people who owed him favors and touched on his office expansion plans, the new MRI he’d imported from Switzerland, the cash he’d moved on the stock market, his workout regimen, juicing, shopping trips to New York, his collection of Patek wristwatches and baseball paraphernalia. When he asked questions, it was to himself—“How do I know? Let me tell you.” Normally this was Iskra’s pet peeve, but tonight, it was bliss. She could observe diners, study the dining room, savor each saucy bite of the steak Alejandro ordered for her. By the third glass of red and the last bite of cannoli, she’d almost forgotten he was there, sitting across the table, until there it was: a question for her.
“Did you hear what I said? I once saw the governor eat here.”
The next morning, Iskra walked to her downtown job. She enjoyed taking care of the plants and was glad to have been assigned the Steel Building’s top fifteen floors. After she wrapped up weeding and watering, she ate lunch—a buttered dinner roll and a can of Pepsi—on the thirty-seventh and highest floor, where they kept the watering cans, bags of soil, gardening gloves, and pruning shears. The glass-walled space overlooked the city and seemed to float in the sky, its tall plants leafing and winding along the bolsters. After lunch, when she stepped behind a three-tiered yucca to change out of the forest-green crewneck with the Green Foliage logo, Iskra felt like the first woman in the Garden of Eden.
Back home, she had dreamt of living in New York, but Pittsburgh was close enough. The city was home to an old priest, a distant cousin of her father’s who had prayed into health a sickly son of Green Foliage’s owner, who in turn had given Iskra this job as a favor to Father Mike. In the end, the city didn’t matter. America was America, New York or LA, Pittsburgh or Houston.
She looked down at the river, lingering on the yellow spires of Smithfield Street Bridge, which she’d crossed that morning, and on the Monongahela River Trail, which she walked after descending from her apartment on the South Side Slopes. All those rolling hills, rivers, and bridges disoriented her, but someday she’d be in the know.
After clocking out, Iskra stopped in the lobby to get coffee. The to-go cup, a genius American invention, allowed her to keep moving, to not waste time idling in a café over tiny sips of espresso the way people back home rotted their days away. Once, she overheard a tourist comment that it must have been a national holiday that enticed the multitudes of Zagrebians to bask in the sun at endless rows of cafes. Poor soul couldn’t fathom he was merely witnessing a Wednesday.
Looking at people’s diverse skin tones in the Steel Building lobby, Iskra felt like she was inside a TV, the only place people of color existed in her uniformly white homeland. She liked looking at men in suits and ties, women in suits and sneakers, all walking briskly with a sense of purpose, smiling as they passed. At first she didn’t know what to make of all those smiles. Back home a smile was earned and carefully dispensed, never squandered on strangers. Here, everyone gave them away for free. The lobby was one big, sunny grin. And at its heart was Mitchell, a security guard with the sunniest smile of all, each tooth a crisp snowball, luminous against his deep brown skin. She’d registered the name on his ID tag a few days ago with a stealthy glance, but today she must have stared too long because he started to walk toward her.
“Can I help you, miss?”
She shook her head but couldn’t look away.
“You sure?” he said.
“Yes. Well, maybe,” Iskra said, nervously stirring milk into her coffee. “Do you know Blair Underwood?”
The man raised his eyebrows a little. “No. Wait. The actor?”
Iskra nodded. Ever since Underwood joined the cast of L.A. Law, she’d never missed an episode with Mama. “Zgodan frajer,” Mama had said, making Iskra look up from a thousand-piece puzzle. Never before had she heard Mama comment on a man’s handsomeness, or seen her gaze grow so intense as Blair dashed through his closing arguments. Mama hung on every subtitle as if she were one of the jurors weighing every word, deciding between lockup and freedom. Iskra approved: Blair was one good-looking man.
“What about him?” Mitchell said over the sea of bodies hurrying to be places.
“He looks good,” Iskra said, feeling her cheeks grow warm.
Mitchell stifled a laugh. “That’s some serious whirl you’ve got going,” he said, eyeing her cup. “You’re one of the plant people, right?”
She stopped stirring her coffee. He recognized her without the logoed crewneck.
“I’m Mitchell.”
They shook hands, hers sticky with milk and sugar. “I’m Iskra.”
“Iskra.” He rolled the r just enough to sound both correct and American. “Can I join you for a coffee?”
“Thanks. But I have to go to work. Second job.”
“How about after?” He turned so that the barista wouldn’t hear him. “The coffee here is not that great anyway.”
With the barista’s pen, Iskra wrote the pharmacy address on a napkin and handed it to Mitchell. This meant a date, she was pretty sure. A real American date with a real American man.
This time Iskra walked across the Tenth Street Bridge through the Flats and up the Slopes. Three Rivers Pharmacy sat at the top of the hill. There were buses and trolleys, but she preferred walking. She wanted to feel the land under her feet, taste the smog. She wanted to belong.
Her apartment was on the way, so she stopped to splash her pits and change her shirt. She’d brought a set of elastane turtlenecks from Zagreb so her clothes could be presentable without needing to be pressed. She’d developed an aversion to ironing after years of watching Mama slave at the ironing board, determined to oust every fold and wrinkle.
Before stepping down to the sidewalk, Iskra soaked up the view. Above a row of houses, the top of the downtown skyline made her feel lucky—her cheap rent had scored her a cinematic panorama. Then her gaze fell on the spot where Alejandro had parked last night when he dropped her off after dinner. She’d allowed him to give her a ride home because she didn’t feel comfortable wandering around in the dark, but she knew that permission would cost her. After he’d shut off the ignition, Alejandro turned toward her, his hand stroking the steering wheel. Although insistent, he seemed tame compared to some of the brutes she’d dated back home. Of course, that didn’t make him a nice person, merely a harmless douchebag. She was glad Mitchell would meet her after work, help her wiggle out of Alejandro’s likely push for another dinner.
As she climbed the hill, she ran her hand over the houses’ vinyl siding, the kind she’d seen in the movies and, like so many other things in this enchanted land, couldn’t wait to touch. She didn’t expect the siding to feel flimsy and hollow, an empty space between it and the wall.
A basketball rolled to her feet. She bent over and picked it up, preventing it from rolling all the way down to the Flats. A little farther up the hill, two police officers, one white and one brown, patted down three Black teenage boys against a wire fence. Iskra wedged the ball against the wheel of the patrol car.
“Ma’am,” the white cop said, “I need you to step away from the cruiser and leave the area.” She almost chuckled. The whole scene felt fake, like a scene from L.A Law. But of course it wasn’t—those cops were serious; those teens were in trouble. She kept walking and didn’t look back, not wanting to see what happened next.
When she entered the pharmacy, Miles was handing a prescription bag to a short, plump man with messy hair and a white shirt flecked with reddish stains. Hearing the door chime, the man turned around.
“Well, well, well,” he said. “Now what do we have here?” He promenaded to the register as Iskra took off her jacket and settled in to work.
“Miles, you dirty old man,” the man said, his eyes on Iskra. “I see you’ve been hiding things from me. Pretty little things you wanted to keep all to yourself.”
Iskra’s stomach churned. She felt exposed in her snug turtleneck and wished she hadn’t taken her jacket off. She started to wipe the counter, sending Miles a pleading look.
“Leave her alone, Enzo,” Miles said. “How was dinner, Ashkra?”
“Um, good,” Iskra said.
“Isn’t Alejandro amazing?” Miles said.
“Ha! That pussy,” Enzo said, fighting a coughing fit. “I bet he took you to that pussy restaurant.”
“He has nice hair,” she said, hating herself for deflecting one seedy man by pretending she was into another.
“Who, Fuentes? Nicer than mine?” Enzo ran his fingers through the curls grazing his neck, laughing, coughing. “At least mine’s nicer than Miles’s.”
Miles frowned. “Like I said, Enzo, your new insurance only covers a generic, but no worries, it’s still the blue pill.”
Enzo’s face darkened. “When you get tired of Miles’s antics and those posers at Nona,” he said to Iskra, “I’ll make you some real Italian food. That’s . . . my place . . . over there.” He managed through another bout of coughs.
Iskra hadn’t noticed the storefront next to Nona. A sign above the smudged window read Enzo’s Pizza. He backed toward the door, staring at her, averting his gaze only once he was outside.
“Last year he broke into Nona and trashed the place,” Miles said, “because they started serving wood-oven pizza.” He shook his head. “Have nothing to do with him, Ashkra. He’s a drug dealer.”
When Mitchell picked her up at the pharmacy, it was too late for coffee. He suggested hot chocolate at a nearby diner where old-timers came during the day for unlimited pop refills and year-round fish fry. Inside, it smelled like Friday when, Lent or not, Mama went to the Dolac Market for a fresh catch from the Adriatic. Two men sat at the bar talking to the bartender, a corpulent woman with teased bangs wearing a Steelers jersey. The radio murmured indistinctly. Mitchell asked Iskra if she wanted something other than hot chocolate.
“I’ll have what you’re having.” She’d heard this expression in a movie, and when Mitchell didn’t flinch, just signaled the bartender, she knew she’d used it at the right time.
“Iskra,” he said. “I’ve never heard that name before.”
“It means spark,” she said, “in Croatian.”
“For real? That’s beautiful. Do all Croatian names have a meaning?”
“No, just mine,” she said.
He laughed.
“It’s true,” she said. It wasn’t. She remembered the compound names of the medieval dukes and kings, the flower names for girls along with that inconceivable one, Tuga. Sadness. “Okay, maybe a few. But not many.”
“When did you get here?” he said.
“Two weeks ago,” she said. “I won a lottery.”
He laughed again and Iskra worried it was because she sounded silly, foreign.
“So, what do you think?” He unclasped his hands, took in the room. “Still feel like winning?”
“So far, so better,” she said, proud of her witty take on the classic line.
Mitchell laughed again, and this time she knew he wasn’t laughing at her. “Should I take that as a compliment?” he said.
She smiled.
He covered his eyes and let out a soft grunt. “I’m sorry, that was lame.”
His smile was big, disarmingly genuine. He no longer looked like Blair Underwood. He looked like a person she wanted to know. As they talked, she noticed a constellation of dark bumps on his forehead, a short scar on his neck, an asymmetrical mouth, and a wrinkle that appeared on his left cheek whenever he smiled.
It turned out he was a few years older than she was. With a tad more past.
“Divorced,” he said. Iskra tried not to gasp. Divorced was such an American thing to say, to be. He added that his was a starter marriage. She hadn’t heard of a starter marriage before, but all she cared to know was that after it started, it ended.
When their liquid chocolate arrived in chunky ivory mugs, Iskra first thought the little floating white puffs were whipped cream.
“Oh, those are marshmallows,” Mitchell said.
Iskra remembered her bewilderment at the mention of these mysterious things on Santa Barbara, a soap opera she used to watch as a kid, where people hung out around a fire on the beach, roasting white cylinders on twigs like she roasted corn at Grandma’s during summer breaks.
“Aren’t they supposed to be roasted?” she said.
“Bigger ones, yes,” he said. “These are minis.” He wiped off his lips with a knuckle. “We can roast some come summer.” He pushed up the sleeve of his sweater, revealing a brawny forearm. Iskra wanted to touch it, right then and there, then move on to his back, his jaw; she wanted to trace him like a sculpture.
“I don’t think I can wait till summer,” she said.
Mitchell breathed out a little laugh.
When they finished the drinks and put on their coats, he offered to give her a ride home. She wanted the evening to last longer, so she said she’d rather they walk. He agreed, pocketing his hands. She slid her hand in the crook of his arm, feeling the sturdiness of his frame through the soft down of his puffer. The steam of his winter breath smelled like sugar.
Halfway down the hill, near where she saw the teens get frisked, a patrol car came to a stop, and the window glided down.
“You okay, ma’am?” the officer asked.
Iskra felt Mitchell stiffen a little, trying to unlatch her arm.
“I’m very okay,” she said, leaning closer to him. As they resumed walking, the patrol car lingered behind them.
At lunchtime the next day, Mitchell surprised Iskra with a turkey sandwich and a can of Pepsi. They ate together on the thirty-seventh floor, in the Garden of Eden. She loved that he ate with passion, a kindred spirit, making sounds of satisfaction as he chewed. She imagined fondling the slight thickness of his stomach, where the discipline of the rest of his body relaxed, a sign of courage to enjoy life. When he finished his soda, he leaned back and crumpled the can above his open mouth, squeezing it like an orange for the last few drops. She thought to bring up the patrol car that had ended their evening on an awkward note, but why bother? They decided to meet again. Making plans and retracing familiar steps to the pharmacy felt like putting down roots.
When Iskra entered the pharmacy, Miles looked up from behind the computer, crossing his hands on his chest.
“I’m so glad to see you’re safe and sound, Ashkra.”
“Safe and sound?”
“It means you’re okay. That you weren’t hurt.”
“I know what it means,” she said. “I just don’t know what you mean.”
“I saw you leave with that man last night,” he said. “I wasn’t sure about him.”
“You don’t have to be sure,” Iskra said. But what she wanted to say to Miles and to the world was, I like that man. What she wanted to do was hold Mitchell close, claim him like she did last night.
She started to slot cigarette packs behind the register. Miles walked over and grabbed a bag of chips. “I’m sorry, Ashkra,” he said. “You’re new here, and you don’t know how things work. I wouldn’t want anything to happen to you. Not on my watch.”
“Right,” Iskra said, barely hiding her irritation.
“All I’m saying is a girl like you could have anyone,” Miles said.
“That’s right.” She stopped arranging the cigarettes to look at Miles. “Anyone I want.”
Miles took a package of HoHos from the candy rack. “How about something to sweeten the day? On the house.”
“No, thanks,” Iskra said, breaking a roll of pennies into the register.
Miles lingered, whistling, surveying the inventory. She noticed his hair was no longer gray but mahogany with brownish splotches on his bald patch. The stains reminded her of Mama’s henna dripping under the shower cap onto her forehead.
“You colored your hair,” Iskra said.
“I dyed it, yes,” he said.
“It doesn’t look dead to me.”
Miles started to say something and changed his mind.
“I mean, it looks new,” Iskra said, searching for a mistake in her English.
“Not as nice as Alejandro’s, huh?” He blushed, wiping his bald patch with a handkerchief.
A man in a Pirates cap elbowed through the front door, the chimes clattering. He placed a pizza box on the counter in front of Iskra. “From a secret admirer,” he said before walking out.
After the trolley passed, Iskra saw Enzo blow her a kiss from the pizza shop window. Turning away, she opened the box. Inside lay a cheese pizza in the shape of a heart.
“You’re not going to eat that,” Miles said. “Who knows what’s in there.”
Iskra tore off a ventricle and took a big bite.
Later, a young mother came in with three babies—one on her hip, one in her belly, another toddling by her side, snot crusting the girl’s nose. The woman walked past Iskra to the prescription counter.
“I already told you on the phone,” Miles said, raising his voice. “The inhaler is not covered anymore.”
“But my baby can’t breathe without it,” she said.
“Talk to your insurance,” Miles said.
The woman started yelling, banging on the shelves, knocking loose pregnancy tests locked behind plexiglass. Miles came from behind the computer, grabbed the woman by the elbow, and led her out the front door. He didn’t notice the sobbing toddler who’d gotten detached from her mother’s thigh. Iskra pulled a tissue from the box of Kleenex by the penny tray and wiped the little girl’s nose. She picked her up and headed outside to look for the girl’s mother, who had just turned around to come back in.
“Thank you,” the woman said, her jacket falling off her shoulder, the baby restless on her hip.
“I’m sorry,” Iskra said. This was a magical expression that in the movies seemed to make everything all right: bodily harm, inconsiderateness, infidelity, all manner of injustice. But this woman’s tears were real, her despair palpable, and Iskra knew sorry could not come close to solving her troubles.
“Bri,” Enzo yelled from the door of his shop, arms wide open. The woman crossed the street with her children, and as soon as she reached Enzo, leaned into him. He stroked her hair. Iskra trudged back inside.
“That’s where her kid’s inhaler money goes,” Miles said, shaking his head.
“What about the inhalers Alejandro brought?” Iskra said.
Miles stopped typing. “What Dr. Fuentes brings and what I do with it is none of your business, Ashkra,” he said.
Iskra wanted to push but didn’t want to get herself kicked out of America before she fully got in.
“Don’t fall for her antics,” Miles said. “She’s a junkie.”
The conversation was interrupted when a group of kids barged in, filling the pharmacy with boisterous energy. They asked for suckers. Iskra grabbed a handful from the box and slid them across the counter.
“We don’t have money for all these,” one of the kids said.
“On the house,” Iskra said.
The boy’s eyes widened. “Thanks, lady,” he said as Iskra rang up the candy and shot a few quarters into the register.
“Big mistake, Ashkra. They’ll be back,” Miles said, typing, his eyes on the computer. “The brown ones are like stray cats. Feed them once . . .”
With nightfall came the predictable banging on the back door. When Miles opened it, Alejandro said, “More loot, Gordo.” He shook a paper bag, pill bottles rattling inside. Seeing Iskra, he pointed finger guns to his shoes. “Croc,” he said.
She played dumb. “Cock?”
The front door chimed.
“How was the pizza, sweetness?” Enzo shouted.
“It was good,” Iskra said. “Thank you, Mr. Enzo.”
“Love sliding down your throat, didn’t I tell you?” Enzo said.
Iskra almost gagged.
“Wow.” Alejandro turned to Iskra. “Can you believe this guy?”
“Stay out of it, Fuentes,” Enzo said.
“Sorry, Enzo,” Alejandro said, “but you’re the one who’s out of it. As in, on the sidelines.”
Miles, who was looking through Alejandro’s bag, broke out laughing.
Enzo puffed his chest, shifted his weight. His eyes were red. Rearranging bottles of lotion and shampoo, Iskra wondered if in addition to being a dealer, Enzo was also a drug user.
“They’re waiting for us at Nona,” Alejandro said to Iskra.
Enzo grumbled under his breath, slammed the door behind him. Iskra flinched. When she regained her composure, she turned to Alejandro. “I’m not going to dinner with you.”
“I get it,” he said, adjusting his gold tie pin. “You just had pizza. We’ll go some other time.”
She wanted to tell him there would be no other time, but Alejandro had already resumed his business with Miles. She took the key and opened the front door. The neighborhood had sunk into indigo. She exhaled in a loud gust, looking downhill for Mitchell. She couldn’t wait to see him and touch him, hear him say her name, taste his marshmallow tongue. After locking the door, she counted the money and stuffed it into the National City pouch. As she walked toward the rear of the pharmacy, the back door shook with banging. Miles looked over at her, then at Alejandro.
“Late delivery, probably.”
Miles undid the lock and was knocked backwards as the door was forced open. He hit his head against a shelf, pill bottles showering him as he fell to the floor. In the doorway stood a man in black pants and a stained white shirt. Beneath a ball cap pulled low, he wore a mask, an apron maybe, covering his nose and mouth. He kicked the door shut and pointed a handgun at Miles and then at Alejandro, whose hands were already up. Iskra clutched the money pouch. She’d seen guns before. Guns big and small, fired in war and celebration, tucked into the belts of policemen, soldiers, and boys who snatched them from under their careless fathers’ beds.
“You,” the man called out to her. “Get over here.”
“Leave her alone,” Alejandro said.
“No, motherfucker.” The man grabbed Alejandro by the tie, glaring at him with bloodshot eyes. “You leave her alone.” He shoved the gun against Alejandro’s crotch. Alejandro’s golden pin slid off the tie and fell onto the linoleum floor. A dark stain spread across his groin, down to his crocodile skin shoes. The man in the mask pushed Alejandro to the floor. Then he started knocking bottles off the shelf, sending them flying, until a violent cough seized him.
Iskra grabbed an inhaler from the pill counter. “Enzo!”
The man pointed the gun at her, still coughing, his hand shaking. Terrified, Iskra extended the inhaler toward him.
“Take it, Enzo,” Miles said. “It’ll help.”
Still coughing, Enzo dropped the gun onto the counter and used both hands to tear off the mask, gasping for air. Iskra recoiled from the gun but swallowed her fear; she did not come all the way to America to get shot. She snatched the gun by the barrel. She didn’t expect it to be so heavy or so cold. Backing away from Enzo, she dropped the money pouch and fumbled with the gun, got it turned around, and pointed it at Enzo with both hands, making sure not to touch the trigger.
“Give me the gun,” he said, still trying to catch his breath. “You don’t know what you’re doing.”
She shook her head. “Sit down.”
She thought to call 911 but was afraid to let go of the gun. Besides, would the police even believe a freshly minted immigrant holding American citizens at gunpoint?
“We can take it from here, Ashkra,” Miles said, struggling to get up, holding the back of his head. “It’s just a little misunderstanding.”
“Ah-ah-ah.” Iskra wagged the gun. “Stay where you are.”
Miles stilled. Alejandro remained on the floor. Enzo coughed and coughed. Iskra wished she knew how to empty the magazine.
Someone knocked on the front door. Keeping the gun trained on Enzo, she took a step back, looking around the end of the shelf. Mitchell couldn’t see the gun or the others. He was holding up a bag of marshmallows, circling a lighter underneath as if roasting them. Iskra turned back to Enzo.
“That’s my man out there,” she said. “Make one move, make his day.”
Keeping the gun pointed at him, she went to the back door and exited the pharmacy, finding herself in a cool, dark alley. She looked at the gun in her hands. She couldn’t believe what just happened, what she’d pulled off. For a moment, she felt she’d stumbled into a movie, and she looked at the gun as if it were loaded with questions: What was ahead? Would she find footing? Would she make it? Coming back to herself, she tossed the gun down a storm drain and walked away. The thrill of what happened next belonged to her date with Mitchell.
Bergita Bugarija grew up in Zagreb and now lives in Pittsburgh. Her fiction appears in Pleiades, Salamander, and The Barcelona Review, among others. It is also anthologized in Flash Fiction America(W. W. Norton). Her story collection, I’d Rather Be Here, has been a finalist for Press 53 Award for Short Fiction, Moon City Short Fiction Award, and New American Fiction Prize. She’s the editor of Tongue, a magazine of literature in translation. Read more at tonguestory.com and bergitabugarija.com.
Read more from the Restless Books Prize for New Immigrant Writing 2026 Finalists.
