Seven Dollars Worth
I guess it's kind of like marketing. Definitely banishing box-thoughts with his schemes. The man in the tiny ponytail reeks of Chinese food and tobacco, and swaggers like a Texas politician. He makes a picket fence of teddy bears on the counter at the diner. Seven bucks for all five. A number he pulls out of thin air. I try my best to ignore him, and sweat over a sandwich griller while what's left of daylight whispers dirty secrets on the back of my neck.
I turn around and he's pulling at the creases of his chocolate colored jacket. Seven bucks. The customers don't have to pay attention. They settle deeper into their chairs and drive home their eye contact like tent stakes. Anything to avoid his gaze—those shiny white teeth and the way he pulls his top lip up over his teeth.
Is this a scam? Did he steal those bears? Why seven dollars? I find myself asking all the questions as I politely decline. He gestures, this Vanna White lateral slide, the back of his hand addressing their plush contours. These bears are classics. Mint condition. But why is he here? Is this a drug deal I'm too dense to notice? So many times every day I wonder why I came all the way to this city.
The money in the register isn't mine. I plead with him. He ignores my cues: tone, gesture, emphatic eyebrows. Surely the pile of toys in the corner is ready for an embellishment, he insists. He actually says that. “Embellishment.” I feel like he's calling me a liar. He's a transient, isn't he? A vagrant? Homeless? This is survival, not a business model. The more cool and suave he becomes, the more I feel like paying him would just cut deeper into his act. Buying the whole swath of them, scooping them up into my arms like a giant, loving hero, I could shatter this reality he's creating. Show the patrons that he's no businessman.
He's trying to level with me. His elbows are on the counter, little puddles of his curious odor spreading outward. One businessman to another. Our scents mingle. Grilled cheese and General Tso's, fair trade Peruvian and Virgina loose-leaf.
This is a deal. There's a lot of kids in this neighborhood. Kids need something to do. Parents need to just sit back and pretend for a while. I don't have cash, and it can't come out of the register. And still they're all ignorant. Customers just turn a blind eye as we get louder and louder. He's emphatic. I've never really seen someone who was emphatic before this. This. Is. The. Best. Deal. It's a steal. Steal. He's practically telling me he lifted these. His buddy at Goodwill left the back door open, maybe. Or he could've run off while the old lady had her back turned at the garage sale.
Seven dollars, man. That's nothing. Every one of these people is spending that on dinner alone. An uncomfortable rustle through the patrons and I wish I wasn't alone back here. This counter is defining us. A fortress tower. I imagine pouring hot coffee down from the battlements.
As he finally realizes his time is better spent another place, the smoke and steam curl in his wake. It's like he's so massive he can bend the light. I feel like he knew he'd lost a long time ago. He kept up his assault. If he couldn't win, at least he could make mine feel like choking. A grown man walking away with his arms full of children's toys. It's so fucking stupid. I'm left standing here, and who would side with me? Was it worth seven dollars? All this pride I've got? Or would seven dollars be a fair price so we could both have a little dignity? Embellish a bit.
I turn around and he's pulling at the creases of his chocolate colored jacket. Seven bucks. The customers don't have to pay attention. They settle deeper into their chairs and drive home their eye contact like tent stakes. Anything to avoid his gaze—those shiny white teeth and the way he pulls his top lip up over his teeth.
Is this a scam? Did he steal those bears? Why seven dollars? I find myself asking all the questions as I politely decline. He gestures, this Vanna White lateral slide, the back of his hand addressing their plush contours. These bears are classics. Mint condition. But why is he here? Is this a drug deal I'm too dense to notice? So many times every day I wonder why I came all the way to this city.
The money in the register isn't mine. I plead with him. He ignores my cues: tone, gesture, emphatic eyebrows. Surely the pile of toys in the corner is ready for an embellishment, he insists. He actually says that. “Embellishment.” I feel like he's calling me a liar. He's a transient, isn't he? A vagrant? Homeless? This is survival, not a business model. The more cool and suave he becomes, the more I feel like paying him would just cut deeper into his act. Buying the whole swath of them, scooping them up into my arms like a giant, loving hero, I could shatter this reality he's creating. Show the patrons that he's no businessman.
He's trying to level with me. His elbows are on the counter, little puddles of his curious odor spreading outward. One businessman to another. Our scents mingle. Grilled cheese and General Tso's, fair trade Peruvian and Virgina loose-leaf.
This is a deal. There's a lot of kids in this neighborhood. Kids need something to do. Parents need to just sit back and pretend for a while. I don't have cash, and it can't come out of the register. And still they're all ignorant. Customers just turn a blind eye as we get louder and louder. He's emphatic. I've never really seen someone who was emphatic before this. This. Is. The. Best. Deal. It's a steal. Steal. He's practically telling me he lifted these. His buddy at Goodwill left the back door open, maybe. Or he could've run off while the old lady had her back turned at the garage sale.
Seven dollars, man. That's nothing. Every one of these people is spending that on dinner alone. An uncomfortable rustle through the patrons and I wish I wasn't alone back here. This counter is defining us. A fortress tower. I imagine pouring hot coffee down from the battlements.
As he finally realizes his time is better spent another place, the smoke and steam curl in his wake. It's like he's so massive he can bend the light. I feel like he knew he'd lost a long time ago. He kept up his assault. If he couldn't win, at least he could make mine feel like choking. A grown man walking away with his arms full of children's toys. It's so fucking stupid. I'm left standing here, and who would side with me? Was it worth seven dollars? All this pride I've got? Or would seven dollars be a fair price so we could both have a little dignity? Embellish a bit.
posted by Maximillian @ 10:20 PM
0 comments
