Steve extended a twenty and a fiver across the boundary, “So, John, what would you rather be doing right now?”
There was a fraction of a moment where John hesitated to grab the crumpled bills, if Steve hadn’t been looking for
it he would not have noticed. John continued bagging as he answered Steve.
Steve chuckled, plain enough reply, but the content didn’t matter, it was the fact of the response, the breaking of the hierarchy of customer versus grocer and a simple question that lets Dead-Eyes John know that he is not forgotten behind the counter and that his plight is appreciated. Steve had always tried to ask that question to people in the service industry: waitresses, grocers, busboys and cashiers of all types. Every time he asked they always lit up, as if he were the first person in history to take an interest in their feeling as opposed to harping on them for doing their job “improperly.” Most people, it seemed, would rather ignore other humans, contrary to the belief that they are social creatures. It was out in public that Steve would see people for who they truly are – parents that would beat their kids, old wealthy white guys who expect to be waited on hand and foot, young couples on welfare who bought scratch-off lottery tickets – no one had any shame and Steve figured this was because they ignored everyone. It was only through complete social isolation that any normal person would expose their fucked up behavior like that. Certainly, Arnette and Steve would not raise a hand to their children when out in public, not only would it be embarrassing, there could be dire legal consequences.
John handed the cash back across the counter, “Have a good day, sir.”
“Thanks, John, take it easy.”
The parking lot stretched past Steve’s line of sight, cars became the horizon and frantic men and women pushed overloaded grocery carts along tunnel-visioned paths to avoid crashing into one another. He passed half-dozen rows of middle-class cars: mid-2000s four doors with a child’s seat in the back and stickers on the rear reading either “CHOC” or diagramming the family dynamic with stick figures for everybody in tow. Each parking spot within one hundred feet was sought after like gold, with newcomers crawling along in search of a closer spot – stalking those on their way out, anticipating a quick steal of their abandoned white rectangle. The evening sun was blocked by a grey sheet, lighting the dusk with an even glow and cutting the usual glare off the waxed and washed Corollas and Suburbans.
Steve walked clear out of the parking lot, not making his way towards any of the cars and he paused at the crosswalk. Traffic roared past as the commuters raced to make it under the yellow light. The light turned red and the automated crosswalk voice told the zero blind pedestrians that it was safe to cross.
Keeping a brisk pace was important, it was so easy to be nonchalant about walking, but the truth – as Steve saw it – was that walking was the primary exercise he got in a day and he better make it count. The neighborhood he walked towards was unbelievably unspectacular. As far as Steve was concerned, nothing good or important would ever take place in or around Glimmer Court. The houses were all designed by the same company nearly three decades ago, a company which (apparently) favored bi-levels and ranches. Each unit was occupied by a family, usually families which held the title of “original occupant,” which was, somehow, of significance. When cruising through along the streets, it looked like giant, square, faded Easter eggs had been dropped into this corner of Bland. The last event to register as notable to the region beyond Bland happened when the neighborhood was not even finished, when only half of the lots had been filled seventeen years ago.
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