“Can I get a half pound of ham and a pound of salami?”
I look over the deli counter at the deli worker.
Name tag: Phil
Phil stares straight ahead at me but I detect no life in his eyes. Under Phil’s work apron is an old Chicago Bulls t-shirt featuring cartoon drawings of Michael, Scottie, and Rodman.
“Phil?”
No response.
“Um…are you guys open?”
I notice that Phil’s left arm is behind his back. What is he doing with his hand?
Phil takes his hand out of his pants and puts his fingers up to his nose, sniffing.
“Uh uh, I don’t want the ham anymore,” I say.
Phil finally speaks, “Didn’t think so.”
I rush out of the store and internally vow never to return.
On my drive home I realize this: Phil hates his job and has found the perfect stop-gap to ensure that he never has to do it.
Phil’s tactics may be extreme but he is not so unlike many of us.
I hope he keeps his job and never ever ever ever ever serves a customer.