We meet in dank basements under the light of exposed bulbs that glow so weakly, they remind us of beacons in a fog. We meet in quiet parks, where the only others present are women pushing baby carriages. If a real baby occupies the carriage, the woman probably isn’t a law enforcement officer. We meet in the storage rooms of grimy restaurants, where outdated calendars hang between shelves stacked with cans of dehydrated bacon bits. We meet anywhere we won’t be watched.

Today the dealer sits quietly on a park bench, tapping his fingers, waiting for me to open the conversation. “Got any Orville?” I say.

He stifles a laugh. “We don’t call it that anymore. Nowadays it’s known as Red Man.” He reaches into a satchel and pulls out a plastic jar just far enough for me to recognize the label: a red oval. A retro font. A man in horn-rimmed glasses, bow tie, and curly white hair. Genuine Orville Redenbacher Gourmet Popping Corn. An entire 30 oz. jar.

“How much?” I ask.

“Twenty dollars. I have two of them.”

A fair price. Orville—or Red Man—goes for seven or eight dollars in the United States. It’s unavailable in Europe.

“I’ll take both,” I say.

He slips them into my satchel and says, “I’ve got something else that may interest you.” He produces a 10 oz. glass jar of Heinz sweet relish.

My mouth waters. He sees the longing in my eyes. “How long since you’ve visited the States?” he asks.

“Seven years.”

He nods. “You must need a fix really bad. Tell you what. I’ll give you this for only twelve dollars.”

I conceal my delight: the street value of pickle relish is higher. “I’ll take it,” I say. “Got anything else in that bag of yours?”

“Yes, but nothing you can afford.”

“Try me.”

He allows me a peek into his satchel. I don’t believe my eyes. He’s right: I can’t possibly afford it. A 6 oz. bag of Stovetop Stuffing. I shake my head wistfully.

We pack up, then look around to make sure no one’s been watching. A woman strolls by, pushing a baby carriage. The baby is suspiciously silent and motionless. A flicker of light from a distant hill catches my eye; possibly a reflection from binoculars. It’s time to move on.

————

Stephen Parrish’s short work has appeared in The Austin Review, Boston Literary Magazine, The Good Men Project, Sixfold, Defenestration, and elsewhere. His first novel, The Tavernier Stones, was an Amazon #1 mystery. He serves as editor of The Lascaux Review.