Milk Quest

#1

Ramsey's Rhythms: Lose Control - Missy Elliot ft. Ciara & Fat Man Scoop
Yoooooooooooo. Man, classic track; Ramsey hadn't jammed to this since like 4th grade. He braked his bike and skid to a stop before bumping the volume up a couple of notches, ignoring the high volume warning by a little bit. Just a little. Getting yelled at by Misdemeanor was always good enough to risk an eardrum or two rupturing.

Yeah boy, now we talking. He pocketed the phone and wiped the beads of sweat that formed on his brow with the back of his hand before starting down the road again. The gallon of milk shook around in the front basket. It wouldn’t be much longer now.

((Ramsey Cortez krumps in from Go About Your Business without an exit tag and under new management))

Ramsey loved Mom, but man he was feeling like her personal gopher for the last week. Yeah “my house, my rules” and all that, but he should be getting paid for some of this overtime if you know what he’s saying. Yesterday it was an emergency egg run, the day before it was bread. Today was the milk crisis. The way Mom was acting you’d have expected the world was gonna suddenly explode because she couldn’t make that damn flan.

At least he got to enjoy the blessed weather on this warm spring Thursday for a little while longer.

The young girl was running the convenience store this time. The one with the coke-bottle specs, crooked teeth, and mousy hair you could wring out for motor oil. Never made eye contact and stumbled over her words, but she was really nice. Much better than that old white bitch always staring him down like a hawk like he was gonna commit a worse crime than wearing a tank top and having skin on the wrong side of tan. Would be lying to say she wasn’t near the top of his shit list for when the Purge goes down. Just saying.

Anyway Ramsey got in and got out with the milk and the dollar and sumpteen change stached haphazardly in one of his pockets. Mom always forgot to ask for the change back, and if it was below like $2 Ramsey also conveniently forgot to give it back. Probably made $100 alone through the years with that long con.

The orange pre-sunset rays beat down as he biked down the road back home. Summer really was right around the corner, huh. 90 degree weather that felt like walking through soup accompanied with heat stroke. Wasps and hornets Dad and he would have to murder before they took over the house. That kind of thing.

It was also gonna be the last summer he could fuck around with Ace and the others before having to completely be “ah-dults” and start trade school. God Man, he was so ready. It was gonna be a blast. But first, he had to get back home before Mom freaked even more.

Something caught Ramsey’s eyes further down on the other side of the street. He slowed down, easying on down the warm asphalt as it approached.

Wait. Not “it”.

“Him”. “Running Guy”.

Ramsey crawled along in his bike, hunching closer and eyeing Guy down while trying to make it look like he was doing anything but eyeing Guy down.

Those grey eyes. That square jaw, hardened brow, black military crew cut. Ears that stuck out in a noticeable but charming way. Didn’t have a shirt on today; just shorts, sneakers, and big ass headphones probably pumping some sort of Pantera metal-ass anthem. Or maybe a dadrock power jam, Guy probably rocked either and totally owned it. Sculpted pecs and abs with a light dusting of hair. Biceps and thighs that could lock Ramsey in a crush grip. All slightly red, glittering with sweat in the sun’s final set of the day.

He ran past Ramsey in the opposite direction stone-faced in his own little world. Ramsey was in one of his own and kept watching as Guy turned the corner and faded farther and farther away.

Content with the missed connection as usual, Ramsey turned back around just in time to catch himself falling right into a pothole. The tire got caught and Ramsey went flying with the shout of an “Oh, fuck!”, body flopping earbuds crushing and shoulder skidding on the asphalt into the grass boundary a couple of feet away.

His breath shook as he lied there for a good minute, running through every prayer he had on reserve for still being alive right now. He pushed himself upright into a sitting position and assessed the damage. Everything felt like it still worked, and other than a burning sensation and what felt like a small cut on his arm he was a-ok.

He sat there for another minute, hands covering and holding his forehead as he tried to control his heartbeat and breathing.

Ok. Ok. His earbuds were fucking broke, but he was alive and he was ok. Walk it out.

He gulped, warm spit traveling down his gullet as he slowly rose and brushed debris on his shirt and pants off. He looked left, and then right. No one saw him. Good.

...Oh right, the bike. The bike itself looked fine, not even a flat tire. Old girl’s gone through so much but man was she hardy. Got a fresh coat of paintall along her front, though. Call her “Ranch” cause she be dressin’; unfortunately that dressing was the gallon of milk that had burst open and splattered everywhere.

With a scoff Ramsey picked up the ruptured plastic jug, shook the rest of its contents out into the grass, and set it back in the basket of the bike. He turned her around, pulled his phone back out and paused the personal soundtrack, got back on the seat, and headed back to the store. Mom was gonna have to wait a bit longer.

((Ramsey Cortez's spring semester concluded))