A Pleasant Man

The young man scooped potato salad into the container with a wet plop. He snapped on a lid and put it on the scale, typing in the pricing code. $2.98. A little bit over a pound.

"A little overs OK?" he asked with raised eyebrows and a smile.

Across the counter from him was a fat middle-aged woman with horrible teeth and torn jeans, her massive belly hanging out and just visible below her T-shirt. "Fine," she sighed. The young man nodded and pushed Print on the pricing machine. A hum ejected a sticker. He put it on the lid. "Anything else?"

The woman shook her head, grabbed the salad and walked away. The young man watched her huge bottom swing as she walked, jostling together beneath the tight jeans. It was repulsive. He went to the sink behind him and pulled some paper towel from a dispenser. He wiped his brow and looked at the paper towel. It was wet with sweat.

The doorbell rang and across the store and another fat middle-aged woman came in. She was more repulsive than the last. God, thought the young man, I am tired of these haggard mothers. With his hands on his hips, he waited for the next woman.

He worked in a small butcher shop and delicatessen twenty miles out of Chicago. He liked the work, his boss, his co-workers. He liked most of the customers. He did not like the ill-tempered haggard mothers that came in the store, looking like musty rag dolls. They were depressing, so damned depressing. College was his sideline now, and he worked over forty hours a week in the deli, slicing ham, turkey, selling potato salad, pasta salad, how much fat is in the pasta salad, do you make your own, I want it sliced thinner than that, too much, not enough. He was a happy guy, but three hours with these customers

A handful of customers were a pleasure to wait on. The young man recognized them on sight and would bellow a hello just as they walked through the door. They lightened the day, always.

Twenty minutes later one walked in.

A tall trim man, wearing neatly pressed dress pants, white Oxford shirt and simple red tie walked in. Under his arm was a light jacket. His tie was loosened, his hair slightly mussed. He wore sunglasses and took them off as he came to the counter. The young man grinned. "Hey, howyadoin?" The young man smiled at himself. Running that phrase into a quick single word wasvery Chicago, very Italian. The young man was only a little of the first and none of the second.

The tall man raised a hand, "Doing fine, buddy. Just got offa work. Hot day." He loosened the collar of his shirt a bit more. The tall man just radiated pleasantness like sunburn radiates heat. He was handsome with a full head of dark hair. A few gray streaks ran through it. His face was a little red. Beneath the rolled up sleeves of his Oxford his left arm was red. Driving with the window down, arm cocked out the window. "How you doin? Hows college going?" Not as Chicago, but it was a question. An inquiring question. The tall man waited for the young man to speak.

"Doing good, just looking forward to the end of it."

The tall man didnt even look around the case. He leaned against the windowpane covering the lunchmeat.