I Don’t Own My Likeness 9

Read from the beginning at I Don’t Own My Likeness 1.

The Credit Card Decline

Vince could see the reflection of his sneakers in the immaculate white tile, slightly distorted under the strip lighting above. Somewhere overhead, soft jazz murmured from the speakers, Davis or Coltrane, something warm and comforting. The produce section smelled faintly of fresh basil, cilantro, and eucalyptus hand sanitizer. 

He liked it here. The carts glided without wobbles and squeaks. The apples looked hand polished. The displays of sprouted granola were arranged like a sculpture. No one here ran. No one shouted. Best of all, nobody looked twice at a man pushing a cart full of kale, oat milk, and a single fillet of organic salmon. 

His food choices weren’t indulgent, exactly, just carefully edited. He always went overboard on health-conscious groceries when he was trying to convince himself everything was fine. 

He steered the cart slowly past the imported teas and down the back wall toward frozen foods. At the endcap, a stack of chocolate bars caught his eye. Single origin, bean-to-bar, nine dollars. He picked one up, dark with a hint of pink sea salt. It looked expensive. Felt expensive. 

He placed it gently in the cart beside the salmon, then turned down the aisle to the beverages. A rainbow of kombucha bottles stared at him from behind the glass, condensation weeping down their necks. He reached for one, paused, and put it back, then picked it up again. 

The label read RAW ENERGY Mango Turmeric Revive. He turned the bottle and looked at the calorie count, even though he already knew it. 

“You can do one nice thing for yourself,” he murmured, as if saying it aloud would make it true. No one heard him, and if they did, they didn’t care. 

He placed the bottle in the cart, gently against a soft pack of kale, then continued forward again. The staffed checkout lanes—the place was too high rent for self checkout—gleamed like chrome runways under the diffused ceiling lights. Vince queued in line four, where the cashier looked young enough to still be getting used to his own baritone. He wore a branded polo shirt and a plastic nametag that read JAYDEN in loopy Sharpie script. 

Vince began unloading items onto the conveyor belt, methodical as always: kale, sweet potato, canned lentils, oat milk, and three avocados he had pressed like piano keys to test for ripeness. Then the kombucha, the chocolate bar, and the salmon, tucked near the end like a little indulgent punctuation mark. 

Jayden glanced up and blinked twice in a polite double take. “Hey,” the kid said. “You look really familiar.” 

Vince gave the smile he kept on reserve for moments exactly like this. “I get that a lot,” he said with practiced humility. 

The scanner beeped rhythmically. Jayden moved through the items, bagging them with attention, keeping like items together. Kid knows his training, Vince thought with a slight chuckle. No one asks to speak to the manager faster than a Hollywood housewife whose gallon of milk was just bagged atop a carton of eggs. 

The total popped onto the display. $148.93. 

Vince reached for the sleek black card in his wallet, the one with the matte finish and embossed numbers that used to draw nods from hotel clerks. He handed it over without thinking. 

Jayden slid it into the reader. A flicker. Then a beep. Not the good kind. 

DECLINED. 

Vince smiled again, a little tighter this time. “Run that again?” 

Jayden did. Same flicker. Same beep. 

DECLINED. 

A woman two places back in line adjusted her sunglasses and sighed. Vince pulled a second card from his wallet, the brushed metal one that made bartenders look twice. Jayden hesitated before inserting it. This time, the machine didn’t even blink, just rejected it outright. 

DECLINED. 

Vince’s throat made a slight, involuntary sound, something between a chuckle and a cough. He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. “Try that one again? Sometimes the chip’s touchy.” 

Jayden shook his head. “It, uh… it didn’t even read.” 

Behind him, the sighing woman switched lines. A man in cycling bibs and a skintight yellow jersey checked his watch with theatrical flair. Jayden cleared his throat and leaned forward, trying to soften the blow. “You wanna try a third one?” 

Vince nodded, pulling out a faded blue debit card that looked older than Jayden. The numbers were worn down to little more than plastic smudges, and his name had rubbed off entirely. He handed it over. Jayden slid it into the reader. 

This time, the screen took a moment to respond. A long moment. Vince held his breath. He didn’t realize he was doing it until the approval tone chimed. At the same time, his phone buzzed in his pocket. He fished it out and saw the notification from his bank. Transaction approved. Remaining balance $13.42. 

Jayden returned the card, trying to appear as if nothing had happened. Vince glanced at the characters on the register display, blinking like an afterthought. At the far end of the check stand, his kombucha was growing warm. 

“Thanks,” Vince said, forcing a smile as he took his debit card back. He moved to the end of the check stand where the grocery bags waited, one already straining slightly at the seams, the others arranged neatly like items on a props table. 

He picked up the bag with the kale, the chocolate, and the sweating, room-temperature bottle of kombucha. The approval might’ve gone through, but the timing had gone cold. Behind him, Jayden scanned a bottle of sparkling water for the next customer. But then, somewhere between the baguette and the box of protein bars, the kid paused. The beeps stopped. 

“Wait,” Jayden said, holding the box in midair. His voice went soft and admiring. “Are you Captain Vesta? Like… Spacedock Omega?” 

Vince’s hand froze mid reach, fingers brushing the sharp, leafy edge of the kale. He didn’t turn around at first. 

“I used to be,” he said, voice flat with a smile nailed on top of it. “Now I’m just grilling salmon.” 

It was a decent line. Not his usual rehearsed “Thanks for watching,” but in this moment, it seemed appropriate. He usually loved being recognized, but the timing of this fan encounter sucked. 

Jayden, however, grinned, all innocence and awe. “No way. My uncle used to watch that show religiously. He got me into it. Season four was the best, man. That monologue before the reactor breach?” He pressed one hand to his chest. “Chills.” 

Vince nodded once. “Glad someone still remembers.” 

“I mean, yeah. You’re, like, a legend.” 

From the next position in line came a tight, dramatic throat clear. The middle-aged cyclist behind him shifted forward with deliberate impatience, pushing his coconut water and chia seed pouches ahead like he was docking a starship. 

“This is Hollywood,” the man thundered, addressing Jayden with a smirk. “You’re gonna see a lot of out-of-work actors shopping here. Could we keep things moving, please?” 

Vince glanced up. The guy’s compression jersey, wraparound sunglasses on the back of his neck, and heart rate monitor strapped to his chest told Vince everything he needed to know about him. His limbs were shaved and glistening, like he’d been biking through Vaseline. 

“Sorry,” Vince said, not looking at him, just loud enough for everyone to hear. 

“You were awesome,” Jayden said before turning his attention back to the register. The beeps resumed. Vince offered a nod. The smile he returned was the same one he gave in selfies at Comic-Con and backstage greenrooms. Practiced. Transactional. Soulless. 

“Thanks.” 

He turned back to the cart. The two remaining paper bags were already wrinkling at the edges from condensation. He lifted the first into his cart, but the second gave way at the bottom with a soft, damp rip. The lone sweet potato rolled loose and thudded gently against his shoe. 

Of course, Vince thought. Of fucking course. 

He crouched to retrieve it, fingers closing around the misshapen vegetable like it might ground him somehow. As he rose, Jayden leaned slightly over the counter, voice hushed. 

“Sorry, Captain.” 

Vince met his eyes. The kid meant it. Not as a punchline or a bit of snark. It was almost like he was apologizing for everything—the card decline, the suit Vince wasn’t wearing, the job Vince no longer had, and the world that had kept asking him to be something he couldn’t be anymore. 

Vince stood there, clutching the remains of the ripped bag to his side like a field ration, and for a moment, he thought about saying something real. 

Instead, he adjusted his grip and replied, “Keep your phasers fully charged, kid.” 

Jayden beamed. Vince didn’t wait for a response. He turned toward the automatic doors, which whooshed open with their usual drama, like a spaceship airlock—because of course they did—and stepped into the white blaze of afternoon. 

His eyes squinted against the glare. The paper bag crinkled against his ribs with each step. A single leafy stalk of kale stuck out at an awkward angle.