Quiet
Stores and Overalls
"Hello, Mary."
"Hey." I say back. I wonder if he ever cared about how his store looks. Because technically speaking, the inch of dust would suggest the absence of a housekeeper or even a duster. I look at the same bag of potato chips that I do every week. I wanderingly wonder if they've turned to dust from all of that sitting that they do. The reason for the fascination with the chips is probably a result of my unwillingness to actually raise my head to look at the shopkeeper. Balding, overalls, and loafers from T.J. Max would sum up his silhouette but it's the context that messes with your head. With a face that came from that backside of a baseball bat and a body twisted horribly out of shape from some childhood disease that never seemed to go away by the fact that his eye probably still holds some sort of piece of it in the way that it stills twitches sporadically, he's a character straight from a horror flick. "Um," I say, "could I get some butter...please?"
"Yeah, sure, whatchu makin' this time?"
"Apple pie probably." A truly amazing quality about him is his voice. The kind of voice you would imagine a children's radio show host would have because of the way his husky undertones could put you to sleep. Now I look up at him, he has put me back at ease with the world.
"Reckon you could save me a slice?" he shells it out like someone would shell corn, the imaginary swish of the husks as they fell off seemed to pull my eyelids down automatically.
"Oh sure, I don't really have a client for it."
"No client for miss Mary, singular." He whispers rhythmodically as he slaps down a pat of butter on the scale.
"Probably the bakery on the corner, they're always game."
"Don't make me competitive now," He pushes a price sticker on the now saran-wrapped buttter, I can see the extra oil already trickling through the various creases. I checked my wallet for the $7.99 I didn't have.
"Put that on sale and you've got yourself a deal." Begrudgingly he takes out his pen from the front of his overalls and knocks off a dollar. I pay up, and leave.
"Bye." Is all he says.
"Hey." I say back. I wonder if he ever cared about how his store looks. Because technically speaking, the inch of dust would suggest the absence of a housekeeper or even a duster. I look at the same bag of potato chips that I do every week. I wanderingly wonder if they've turned to dust from all of that sitting that they do. The reason for the fascination with the chips is probably a result of my unwillingness to actually raise my head to look at the shopkeeper. Balding, overalls, and loafers from T.J. Max would sum up his silhouette but it's the context that messes with your head. With a face that came from that backside of a baseball bat and a body twisted horribly out of shape from some childhood disease that never seemed to go away by the fact that his eye probably still holds some sort of piece of it in the way that it stills twitches sporadically, he's a character straight from a horror flick. "Um," I say, "could I get some butter...please?"
"Yeah, sure, whatchu makin' this time?"
"Apple pie probably." A truly amazing quality about him is his voice. The kind of voice you would imagine a children's radio show host would have because of the way his husky undertones could put you to sleep. Now I look up at him, he has put me back at ease with the world.
"Reckon you could save me a slice?" he shells it out like someone would shell corn, the imaginary swish of the husks as they fell off seemed to pull my eyelids down automatically.
"Oh sure, I don't really have a client for it."
"No client for miss Mary, singular." He whispers rhythmodically as he slaps down a pat of butter on the scale.
"Probably the bakery on the corner, they're always game."
"Don't make me competitive now," He pushes a price sticker on the now saran-wrapped buttter, I can see the extra oil already trickling through the various creases. I checked my wallet for the $7.99 I didn't have.
"Put that on sale and you've got yourself a deal." Begrudgingly he takes out his pen from the front of his overalls and knocks off a dollar. I pay up, and leave.
"Bye." Is all he says.