Floyd Kelly

All I wanted was a soda. A simple transaction. But the Quicki Mart, during what was apparently its busiest time of the day, had other plans. At the counter, a guy who I guess was supposed to be a warlock—I’m talking a full-on velvety robe with glittery moon decals and an overly large, purple pointy hat that drooped to one side—was locked in a deep, philosophical conversation with the cashier.

I pulled out my phone. Dead. Of course.

“I must defend my position,” the warlock announced. As he raised his arm in a sweeping gesture as if he was holding a staff, but I didn’t see one, the floppy tip of his hat swung around and unceremoniously knocked over a pyramid-shaped stack of motor oil cans in the window display, which clattered to the floor. He didn’t seem to notice. “The name itself implies a second frying. It’s not that deep, man.”

The Quicki Mart cashier—a super tall, skinny dude with a absurdly giant ball of red, teased hair and a galaxy of freckles—leaned in. “Nah, my dude, see, that’s where the Spanish comes in. It’s from frijoles refritos, which just means ‘well-fried beans’, not ‘fried-again beans’.”

This was the great refried beans debate: how many times have they been fried?

And it was contagious. At first, it was just a couple of other customers who paused to listen. A woman in a suit chimed in with a point about canning regulations. Then the line started to back up because the cashier was not checking people out anymore. The two people behind me got sucked in, then the people behind them. Soon, the entire line was a chaotic, multi-person debate.

Within minutes, the store was literally packed with people, shoulder-to-shoulder from the drink coolers to the chip aisle, all passionately arguing. Everybody was talking about how many times refried beans have been fried. The cashier made one of the most wild exclamations! I had ever heard, yelling “It’s a vegan prophecy come true!” which got a round of applause from the people crammed near the slushie machine.

I was getting seriously flustered. The place was so crowded, a rising tide of bodies pressing me back, closer to the door. I was just a random dude. All I wanted was a soda.

I put my soda down on a rack of chips—it was a lost cause. “Thank God,” I muttered, and started to push my way through the now rowdy crowd. I finally burst through the door and onto the sidewalk, gasping for fresh air.

Just as I escaped, the beer delivery dude was walking up to the entrance with his dolly. He paused, hearing the wall of noise from inside. He looked at me, a question in his eyes.

“I don’t think you want to go in there right now,” I told him, trying to catch my breath. “Unless you really, really like refried beans.”