There was an Asian market by the bus stop in downtown Eugene. We’d slip in for snacks—gum, drinks, whatever had the best picture since we couldn’t read the labels. Unregulated Red Bull, in those dense, bronze cans before it was carbonated, was our go-to. Sometimes we’d try a Lipovitan or a Bacchus D.
One afternoon, we noticed a bottle with markings that looked medical. The shopkeeper, who never spoke, stared blankly as we asked, “Is this medicine?”
He snapped, eyes wide, voice raw: “NO! NO MEDICINE!”
We never went back. But now, I can’t help but wonder—was it medicine? Or just another drink, the same as all the rest? Different labels, same poison. It all equals out.
