Coming back from the corner shop with a half litre tub of imported peanut butter icecream through the heat and hungover eyes I spot the boy with the broken bottle. Bout eight years old. Ripped black sleeveless shirt and dirty faced. Two jagged spikes at the top, the neck’s been snapped off. Tense up. He drops on a pile of bricks to the side of the street and holds the bottle out staring into my eyes. I’ve got no change, keep walking. Headphones in. Eighties classics. Rich kids with interstate license plates yell muffled abuse with feet up on the dash. Keep walking down the hill. Clear view of the cities smog over suburbia. Beautiful. Pink. The ice cream is getting squishy. Strolling down the street with a hat over my eyes. Look in the stores cause I worked here for a year, but been avoiding it if possible, and see if anything’s changed. Nope. Arrive at the video shop for a surburban thriller. Not sure if my membership is still valid. The cashier sighs as he watches a giggling grapfruit haired girl deliberately swapping movies on the shelves as she see fit. She puts The Exorcist in comedy. I always have trouble filling out the deals in these places. Now she puts The Blues Brothers in Sci Fi. Find three films I want then pick three others just to finalise things. She puts Jaws in documentary. Most likely won’t watch them, but gotta complete the deal. She leaves laughing. Go up to the store clerk. He rolls his eyes and eats a jaffa. Asks me if I’m still at the same address. Lie to save time and say yes. Fine. Walk through the scanners and then out the door. Realise I should have bought the ice cream last.