This morning I purchased a diet Mountain Dew at a local Chevron. The sullen cashier texted while ringing up my drink, then mumbled something that might have been a thank you as I stepped back.
“You’re welcome,” I said.
He looked up. “What?”
He was noticeably confused. As was I.
Around his neck hung a pentagram necklace. Plastic or metal flames licked through its scary lattice.
His left forearm had several Chinese symbols tattooed into it. I, of course, have no idea what they said, but most people I have known with symbol tattoos think they have selected something pretty profound.
His right wrist bore a WWJD? bracelet.
An ideological catastrophe. I don’t even think I would have noticed if he would have been less surly and oblivious.