An Encounter at the Bookstore

Lee planned to go the bookstore today.  It was due to open at ten in the morning.  Lee was early, and arrived five minutes before ten.  He sat down next to the entrance, and feverishly smoked a cigarette while he waited for the store to open.  He checked his wristwatch, and the time read 9:55.
“Is it almost ten?” a voice asked.  Someone had seen him check his wristwatch and immediately asked for the time.  Lee looked up and saw a middle aged, caucasian man walking towards him.  He was nearly bald, except for sporadic patches of ginger colored hair to hide his naked scalp.  He sported a dirty blue shirt splattered with paint, and dirty white work pants.  He seemed out of place to be at the bookstore.
“I’m sorry?” Lee blurted out, taken aback by such a strange and ancient question.  Who honestly asks for the time in the twenty-first century?  Doesn’t he have a cellphone with a clock?  The man seemed annoyed, possibly annoyed that Lee was confused by the request for the time, or annoyed that he had to ask for the time in bustling age of cellphones and other technologies that would soon determine humanity’s future.
“Is it almost ten o’ clock?” he repeated himself, more sternly.
“Oh,” Lee stumbled.  He looked at his watch again, and it still read 9:55.  “Yeah, it’s five ‘till.”
“Thank you,” he said, sounding exasperated as though Lee spoke another language.
“Sure,” Lee replied.

Sunday Morning

Six fifteen, and I was still filling my case.  I must have made all of the fucking doughnuts in the world this morning.  Ah, of course.  This morning would be Sunday morning.  Who the fuck has the time to have a wholesome breakfast before parading off to youth group and other church-related activities?  No.  On Sundays, your breakfast is my four minute-warmed (pre-fried and subsequently frozen) yeast-ring doughnuts, dipped in microwaved “white” icing that’s been microwaved hundreds of times.

My doughnut case was sixty-percent filled.  I was missing my stuff that was left on my glazing racks.  We always recycled our glaze, which I thought was a bit concerning.  I left my case to hustle back into the kitchen.  Pushing through the employee access door, I faintly heard the rattle of a shopping cart behind me.  Perhaps a customer?  They probably wanted some of my fucking doughnuts.  I returned to my dirty workspace, and reached for another black tray to fill with glazed yeast ring doughnuts, our most popular doughnut.  The rattling of the shopping cart continued, and grew louder.  I looked to my right, and saw an elderly man approaching my doughnut case.  Go figure.  I only filled one tray, and proceeded out to my case.

The elderly man was preparing a box to fill with doughnuts.  I probably should say hello, or good morning.  He of all people should appreciate some primitive courtesy.  I pushed through out doors out to the floor, and saw the man immediately to my left, bent over, grabbing for some disgusting doughnut that I made.  I waited patiently behind him, waiting for him to finish.  He finished, straightened his posture, and placed his box in the shopping cart.  I’ll say it now.

“Good morning sir!” I said, as cheerfully and forcibly as humanly possible.  The man turned to face me, and said nothing.  He just looked at me, apparently not knowing what to make out of some nineteen year old kid saying hello to him.   He proceeded to walk away from me.  What a fucking prick.