Cranky Disdain

In a lightning strike in reverse, it became more clear. The rolling thunder, building in the distance, forshadowed the realization, the truth to come. It was lunch, around 2 o'clock in a higher quality chain sandwich shop known for toasted sandwiches and pepper bar. All was reasonable with first contact....conversation of hello and what I would like prepared for me...ok. Down the prep-line I went, grabbed a bag of chips and waited behind the only other person in line to trade the representation of my time and efforts for food. As I waited the pile of food containers at the single bay sink caught my eye. The austerity of the shiny black plastic was compromised by little bits of food clinging to thier sides. The way they were precariously stacked, some nested, some leaning, piled over the entire shelf of the sink hinted at the environment they existed in: busy yet methodic, multiple tasks demanding a single attention with the rhythm of production, machine operators. The thunder grows louder. I approach the counter for trade and am greated by a young lady looking like she should be sitting in a classroom or a cafeteria, in need of mental and physical nourishment. How does one know this? I don't typically pass judgements on appearance even before actions, but this is the scene through mine eyes.

The trade. I declare again the product I want from them and after moments of intense scrutiny over color coded and labled buttons, some number is told to me. I was not listening, and as the blind march of cattle, the Jackson is produced, offered, and taken. It is growing close now, the thunder; the windows rattled in thier metal frame streching from floor to ceiling. The bills in her hand are piling up now, accompanied by the timid clink of change. Another number is told at me, I was listening more than before, enough to know the last numbers I heard and these numbers I am hearing now do not belong together. The twitch you feel when passing a car door ajar with none in sight, yet you do not investigate, only log it in as 'not right'.

Not until you see on the evening news, or when you log the transaction into your budget, does the truth reveal itself. The tumbling thunder creshendoes into a crack, followed by a flash. The last number read back to me, the change, was indeed not the first's compliment. The "18" at the end that didn't match up with the "27" - the "14" not matching up with the "7" - what is actually an inability to read, critically think, "do math" - all of it comming down to getting the wrong change. The actual change recieved back was the miliary time of the transaction: 14:18. A smirk painted my face first followed by another flash of realization. Is this the reaction of an "older generation" to a young one? Is this the preamble of cranky old timers harping on younger generations' ineptitude? If it is, I think I know where mine is comming from. I have worked places similar in concept and nature to this place. Washed similar dishes bespeckled with bits of food destined for the wastewater system. Transacted exchanges of paper for food and goods. And with as much modesty a judgemental "older generation-er" can muster, I was above average in the execution of said tasks regardless of what mental or physical state I chose to be in while executing them.

Now begin the questions. Its two-eighteen on a Friday in mid-December. I have been out of the high school scene for some time now, but I'm still pretty sure school won't get out for another hour at least and the person working here wouldn't start until the afternoon shift, 4 or so if not 5 to close. Drop out? possible, and would explain most. Post-graduate? the clouds are growing darker....enough said....

its just one of those times, growing increasingly more frequent, when I am taken aback, suprised even, and have to ask...Really? You couldn't do this.