When I reached the checkout line, I placed my cabbage, red peppers, and green onions on the conveyor belt. The cashier patted a paperback book tucked in her pocket.
“So, I was reading The Plague recently. I have a theory on Dr Riuex’s sense of objectivity and his chronology. He thinks that the inhabitants are enslaved by daily habits. And maybe we are a lot like them…” She smiled as she scanned my produce and placed them in my bag. “That’ll be eight-forty-nine.”
I handed her a ten.
“Sure, we might be like them, but are we enslaved by better habits?” I smiled back.
“Have a nice day,” she blushed.
On my way home, I stopped at a red light. A homeless man wearing a newspaper hat, turned sideways like Napoleon, approached my window. As he got nearer, he squinted at me, looking right into my eyes. He took off his hat and pointed at a paragraph, “Found a typo. Should be they’re, not there. You’d think the paper could hire someone who could write good,” he laughed weezily, waving me on when the light turned green. I nodded and drove away.
As I pulled into the driveway, the mailman was there. He leaned out the window of his vehicle: “Did you know each one of these bags of letters weighs a hundred pounds? He paused, then continued, “You know how we make money? Dimensional weight. Length times width times height, then divide by one hundred sixty-six. There’s a formula for just about everything.” He turned up the Van Halen and sped off.
After the mailman left, Buster, my big sweet farm dog, strolled over with a copy of Peanuts in his mouth. I set my groceries down and sat on the ground next to him and started reading from page one. We’ve read this books dozens of times, but he loves Snoopy & Woodstock. It’s ok, I have time, my submarine class doesn’t start for another hour.