I stood, unwanted, behind the newspapers on shelves that separated the populace and client from her cigarette sanctuary. The bloated head, on bulbous body turned and saw my desire for service and signed. Swivelling and huffing her way partially toward me was an effort clearly I underserved for a client such as I. “ do you need help.” A question without the question mark, the characteristic rise in tone at the end of the sentence was missing, making it a statement. A statement about my state of incompetence, a remark that intoned, fuck off.
My desire to know the location was meet with a another sigh and she waddled off to closest aisle and pointed to the bottom shelf. Bottom shelf indeed. What do you expect from the middle aged and rotund, surrounded by youth, in a supermarket retail. Back to sell cigarettes and price checks she waddled. And there I was with a smirk wishing for someone to retell the story to, to have a laugh and say, look at that. Who could I tell this story to? I can tell it to you.
Next time I’ll take a video.
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