The Weekday One Hundred

I cast a wide shadow over the makeshift lemonade stand.

“Five bucks,” I grunted, slapping a faded Lincoln on the wobbly foldout table.

The proprietor’s eyes lit up at the oversized bid for a lone cup. Then she heard the rest of my offer.

“For the whole shebang.”

The little girl began spitting and sputtering, but I had stopped listening. I cracked open the pint of bourbon from my back pocket and dumped the contents into her pitcher. I grabbed the ice-cold jug with two hands and drained it in front of the horrified nine-year-old.

“Welcome to the neighborhood, kiddo.”