Elliot Liquors

The young man is really good always have a great attitude. He makes me feel like I’m at home. They have a great selection of alcohol and the price is comparable to the big chains. I love it and will continue to come back.

White boy here (in his 50s) made the mistake of wearing bright Hawaiian swim trunks (yellow hibiscus flowers on lime green) to this seedy liquor store while trying to score libations to enjoy by my in-​laws’ pool a few blocks away. Between my car and the front door a gnarly looking meth whore jumped all over me like stink on shit.
«Whoa! What the fuck?» She motioned to my XXXL Highway One label trunks, grabbing at the fabric with her hand that had three little dots tattooed between her thumb and index finger. Yeah, my pants stuck out, I suppose, compared to everyone else’s faded jeans and black t-​shirts, and I was probably the only moron around who knew how to swim.
My new friend/​assailant followed me step-​by-​step across the litter-​strewn parking lot toward my destination. The store has LIQUOR in bright-​red plastic letters across the front. The recently remodeled strip mall is freshly painted two shades of orange. The parking lot boasts new asphalt and striping. It’s brightness contrasts sharply with the all the discarded trash; dented, primer-​blotched cars and ominous gang graffiti.
The surly broad’s breath – rancid with booze and tobacco – felt hot on my face. In one breath she whispered we were going to screw like lovers; in the next she was loudly threatening to kick my ass. Over and over.
She followed me inside. She urged a pair of fat, shaven-​headed reluctant bangers to join in. They quietly demurred and left with their purchase of two 30-​packs of Bud Light and a pack of generic cigarettes. That left me, the crack whore and the boyish clerk who looked like a he could be a bubble-​gum pop star in Iran if the Imams hadn’t pulled the plug on pop culture there decades ago. So here he is – apparently working in dad’s tough liquor store with no bullet proof glass separating him from the customers. He watched us looking like he was afraid I was either an undercover cop or a compliant john.
I walked the crowded aisles in an effort to shake the whore and find their wine selection, thinking a Pinot Griegio would be nice by the pool. Hell no. The hooker told me all they have here is Boone’s Farm and other fruit-​flavored lighter fluid. Noting her new usefulness, I thanked her, gazing at her facial pock marks and poorly rendered tattoo of a tear drop by her yellowish right eye. I was going to ask her if she killed someone but decided against it.
She pulled me over to the fortified malt liquors and pointed at the 40s.
«Can’t do it. If I brought that back to my in-​laws my wife’ll divorce me.»
She suggested I spend the evening with her and some Steel Reserve 404 instead.
I silently grabbed a 12-​pack of Budweiser. The Persian Justin Bieber behind the counter gathered himself to ring up the purchase. I paid, got my change and walked out with «Trixxie» in close tow. The clerk probably felt better now.
The prostitute momentarily unglued herself from my side to complain to a burned-​out chola panhandling nearby that I was an asshole and a tightwad. I used the opportunity to cleanly get back in my truck, lock the door and quickly turn the key. As I drove off she was making these exaggerated jacking-​off motions while pointing at me.
I’ve never been back since. Now I drive further east toward Covina and Walnut.