The Movement
He had a bag in his hand, filled with something black, and was fiddling with the white tag on which the customer is supposed to write the number on the bin so the computer system can keep up with which products are selling.
So I offered to help.
He was mumbling something about there being no numbers on the bins. I missed the "bins" part, assuming it was a "bin" he was looking for. So I showed him the number on the bin, and asked him which one he had taken his stuff from. There were two bins with black things in it, whole dried prunes and sliced dried prunes. Both priced at $2.19 a pound. Orange sign. On sale.
But seems he put some from each bin in his bag. Same price. On sale. Why not he said.
So I started to explain how the computer needs to know how much is being sold.
He was quite amazed. Apparently that notion of modernity had never entered his head.
By then I realized he had purchased prunes! A big bag of prunes! Dried prunes! Several pounds of prunes! A mixture of prunes from two different bins . . . two different SKU numbers. Two different forms of prunes. But still prunes.
I couldn't help myself. He so reminded me of my father. I figured there had to be a sense of humor buried under that scruff somewhere.
So I asked him if he were into politics. If so, he could eat a prune and start a movement.
"Movement!" He had a genuine look of bewilderment on his face.
So I rephrased it, and tried again.
"Movement? Is that what they are doing?"
I sort of thought I knew what he was calling the "they." Obviously to me at least. . . political activists. So I stammered some nonsense about teabaggers eating prunes and starting movements.
"So that is what they do."
I was now figuring this guy really was into political movements . . . but alas, my paradigm of movement activism apparently was not moving us in the same way.
And that look of bewilderment on his face was evolving into an epiphany of radiance.
"I told her I was coming to Andy's when I talked with her on the phone. So she asked me to get her some prunes. So . . . I am getting her some prunes."
And now it was the movement in my paradigm that was moving.
"I asked her why she wanted prunes," he mumbled. But he didn't even hesitate, continued on."She said 'Cause I can't shit!'"
He turned and vigorously moved on.
And the young guy on the other side of him, empty bag in his hands, was turning shades of purple-gray.
The Refectory Manager
So I offered to help.
He was mumbling something about there being no numbers on the bins. I missed the "bins" part, assuming it was a "bin" he was looking for. So I showed him the number on the bin, and asked him which one he had taken his stuff from. There were two bins with black things in it, whole dried prunes and sliced dried prunes. Both priced at $2.19 a pound. Orange sign. On sale.
But seems he put some from each bin in his bag. Same price. On sale. Why not he said.
So I started to explain how the computer needs to know how much is being sold.
He was quite amazed. Apparently that notion of modernity had never entered his head.
By then I realized he had purchased prunes! A big bag of prunes! Dried prunes! Several pounds of prunes! A mixture of prunes from two different bins . . . two different SKU numbers. Two different forms of prunes. But still prunes.
I couldn't help myself. He so reminded me of my father. I figured there had to be a sense of humor buried under that scruff somewhere.
So I asked him if he were into politics. If so, he could eat a prune and start a movement.
"Movement!" He had a genuine look of bewilderment on his face.
So I rephrased it, and tried again.
"Movement? Is that what they are doing?"
I sort of thought I knew what he was calling the "they." Obviously to me at least. . . political activists. So I stammered some nonsense about teabaggers eating prunes and starting movements.
"So that is what they do."
I was now figuring this guy really was into political movements . . . but alas, my paradigm of movement activism apparently was not moving us in the same way.
And that look of bewilderment on his face was evolving into an epiphany of radiance.
"I told her I was coming to Andy's when I talked with her on the phone. So she asked me to get her some prunes. So . . . I am getting her some prunes."
And now it was the movement in my paradigm that was moving.
"I asked her why she wanted prunes," he mumbled. But he didn't even hesitate, continued on."She said 'Cause I can't shit!'"
He turned and vigorously moved on.
And the young guy on the other side of him, empty bag in his hands, was turning shades of purple-gray.
The Refectory Manager
posted by The Refectory Manager | 10:22 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home