It's late and I’m at the grocery store pretending to pick out an eggplant, but really I am eavesdropping on the two store employees working the produce section: a woman in her early thirties with a dark sense of humor, a nose ring and a streak of blue in her hair; and a quiet, serious eighteen year old kid with a moustache and a thick Hispanic accent. The two of them talk business across the aisles while they restock the apples and celery. They say the shipping orders for the month don’t make sense, that no one’s buying what they’re stocking. “You know why it is…” the woman snickers and trails off. She gives the kid a long look across a pyramid of oranges. The kid does not look up from his cart of celery and carrots. His shoulders shrug slightly as if to say: what can you do?

A broad chested white man in his early forties bursts through the swinging plastic doors that lead to the back room. He shines with good health and strides magnificently down the aisles; he waves at the woman and the boy, they wave back at him, and for a second everyone is silent and wearing thin plastic smiles