The one, a good-looking fella in his mid-20s, comes up to the counter and asks for a can of Copenhagen.
"$3.63? That's a small price to pay for lip cancer," he says and laughs.
He then tells me he blames his father for his tobacco habit.
"Grew up on the farm. Dad chewed, and he started giving me snuff when I was 13."
He says he's since quit — at least on weekdays.
"But when I'm out drinking, I just feel like I have to have a chew."
"How much are those flowers?" he asks in the non sequitur I've come to expect from late-night customers.
"I'm not sure," I answer as I head over to the display.
"Think if I gave one to that girl over there she'd grant me sexual favors?" he asks (I apologize for refining the language a bit here).
"I don't know," I say. "It's $2.99 for a single rose. I think you might have better luck with a hot dog."
As the woman approaches, he suddenly stands up straight.
"Hey, Baby, can I buy you a hot dog?"
"Nah," she answers. "But I could really go for a corn dog."
"We don't have any out right now," I say. "But I can pop a couple in the oven. They're on sale, two for $1.50."
"No. We don't have time for that," the woman says.
"It'll only take five minutes," I explain.
"No. We don't have five minutes," she says.
The guy follows the girl out the door, then looks back and shrugs.
"Sorry, Man." I say. "I was pitching for ya."
No comments:
Post a Comment