TRUE STORY!!1!
A drunken cackle came from the doorway. I took a deep breath, ready to hold it in case the owner of that cackle turned out to be one of the stinker denizens of Haight Street.
A grizzled old man came stumbling in. He looked like a bum of some sort, or perhaps an alchoholic whose life was about to crumble to that point. He must've just gotten his tax return, because he sure looked happy and inebriated. He made his way to the cash register, using the counter to support himself.
"Whatchagot, whatchagot. What'sh yer cheapest cigrit? I'm a SMOKEAHOLIC!" he announced.
"Cheapest cigarette is Pall Mall, $3.30," I said, trying not to give him too much eye contact. It's damaging to the soul to look into the eyes of a wasted vagrant.
"I'm a SMOKEAHOLIC!" he repeated. He paused for a moment, chuckling. I imagined he was listening to canned laughter inside his head. "Yeah, I'll take-a pack-a those'ns."
I took the pack off the shelf, but did not hand it to him until he took out his wallet and I could see that he had some money. He paid, then started packing the cigarettes. He squinted at me with a leer in his eye, as if just noticing me for the first time.
"Hey. What's yeerrr name?" he said. Ugh, I hate it when they ask me my name.
"Linda." I said. My name isn't Linda.
"Linda, eh. Hur hur hur. HUUURRR hur hur." There was a brief moment where he wobbled and nearly fell over while he laughed and coughed at the same time. Then, he comes out with, "Linda, why don't you give me no lovin'?"
I rolled my eyes and tried to ignore him, but he started asking over and over again.
"Why don't ya gimmie no lovin'? Why don't ya gimmie no lovin'?"
Finally I said, "Sir, I don't sell love. I sell cigarettes."
He once again gurgled with laughter, and said "Well I suppose that's true. Huuuurrr hur hur. I apologize."
The old man crookedly made his way back out the door, nearly destroying a glass display in the process.
A grizzled old man came stumbling in. He looked like a bum of some sort, or perhaps an alchoholic whose life was about to crumble to that point. He must've just gotten his tax return, because he sure looked happy and inebriated. He made his way to the cash register, using the counter to support himself.
"Whatchagot, whatchagot. What'sh yer cheapest cigrit? I'm a SMOKEAHOLIC!" he announced.
"Cheapest cigarette is Pall Mall, $3.30," I said, trying not to give him too much eye contact. It's damaging to the soul to look into the eyes of a wasted vagrant.
"I'm a SMOKEAHOLIC!" he repeated. He paused for a moment, chuckling. I imagined he was listening to canned laughter inside his head. "Yeah, I'll take-a pack-a those'ns."
I took the pack off the shelf, but did not hand it to him until he took out his wallet and I could see that he had some money. He paid, then started packing the cigarettes. He squinted at me with a leer in his eye, as if just noticing me for the first time.
"Hey. What's yeerrr name?" he said. Ugh, I hate it when they ask me my name.
"Linda." I said. My name isn't Linda.
"Linda, eh. Hur hur hur. HUUURRR hur hur." There was a brief moment where he wobbled and nearly fell over while he laughed and coughed at the same time. Then, he comes out with, "Linda, why don't you give me no lovin'?"
I rolled my eyes and tried to ignore him, but he started asking over and over again.
"Why don't ya gimmie no lovin'? Why don't ya gimmie no lovin'?"
Finally I said, "Sir, I don't sell love. I sell cigarettes."
He once again gurgled with laughter, and said "Well I suppose that's true. Huuuurrr hur hur. I apologize."
The old man crookedly made his way back out the door, nearly destroying a glass display in the process.