I perked up, thinking to myself, "oh cool, someone with a dry semi-sarcastic sense of humor, and how sad, that customer totally ignored his invitation to play!"
It's our turn to check out. The emo-hipster cashier scans our milk, OJ, and Flavor Blast Goldfish.
"Don't get too Flavor Blasted," he warned.
We poorly attempted to muffle our snorts and giggles.
He stares. And continues scanning.
I imagine the inside of the devolutionized-hipster's head looks like this:
We fumbled with lame one-liners, attempting to elicit a reaction. But the thundercloud above his head must've been too stormy, making our jokes inaudible. But they were good.
What's up Napoleon Dynamite look-a-like? Did the popular girls make fun of your drawings? Not enough "likes" on your most recent semi-suicidal Facebook post?
I look to the bag woman, perhaps she find this guy's oddness funny-- and can give me confirmation he won't leap over the counter and start stabbing people. She never looked up from her bagging before shuffling off to the next register. So I know how she feels working in close proximity of that guy.
We grab our bags and head for the door.
"Have the best day ever."
Sincerely Flavor-Blasted,
LA Hoxie
