A Clerk's Strained Civility

The old hanging bell chimed as the wooden door slowly opened. The clerk lifted her eyes from the hidden doodle she was working on. No one had come yet that day and after three hours alone at the boulangerie, she was less than enthused to adorn a veil of customer service. She slipped the scrap of paper with her sketch of a horrifically emaciated figure under the cash register. No need to incite unnecessary chat. She could not think of a more inappropriate image to be seen in a family bakery than a sketch depicting a furious starving child.

The door continued to open inch by inch. The occasional jostling of the bell produced a muffled scraping. The clerk straightened her apron. The door stretched one foot open after what felt like ten minutes of slow pushing from the other side.

Blinking with irritation, she considered walking over to hold the door. However she quickly realized that she’d likely be stuck there for a long time. She stretched her tired eyes into a gaze that could be mistaken for a friendly one.

Finally the tip of a worn leather shoe made an appearance from around the edge of the door.

“Hiya,” the clerk chirped, “how are you doing today?”

No response.

More shuffling.

The grizzled profile of an old man popped into sight, the light glinting on the plastic flesh-toned device lodged in his ear.

“Batteries must need replacing,” she thought to herself. There was a mere meter and a half between them.

The man finally shuffled through the threshold, a quiet pant rattling through his lungs. The door swung back so slowly that it sat slightly ajar. There was a gentle clink as the extended bolt of the handle touched the strike plate. She hated when people didn’t close the door but she bit her tongue.

The man moved towards the counter, scuffing his shoes. She could see that he was wearing at least three collared shirts under an old lumberjack's overcoat that was last laundered in the 1950s.

“The less there is of the man the more the need for clothes,” she quoted to herself. It was from some dark Cronenberg film - she couldn't remember what it was off the top of her head.

He was still about three feet away. She couldn't tell if he was looking at her or through her as he arrived at the counter. Under the greasy wisps of hair that poked out from under his hat she could see dry clumps of skin hanging off the back of his neck. She pursed her lips as she tried to suppress a wince.

His hands finally rested on the high wooden counter that reached to the middle of his chest. She slid off of her stool to better match his height. She could only assume he was five foot - if that.

“Hello sir, what can I get for you?” she repeated in a friendly tone.

His eyes blinked behind the thick glass frames. His left pupil dilated as he refocused on the clerk’s face. He cleared his throat to speak but was overtaken by a coughing fit.

The clerk flinched as a tiny speck of spittle reached her cheek. While he bent down to retrieve his handkerchief she covertly wiped her face.

“Pardon me,” the man managed to squeeze out between wheezes “...rhey...”

“Sorry... ray?”

“Rye!!” he barked.

“Ah. Rye. How many loaves? Just one?” She did her best to pronounce every syllable without raising her voice.

It looked like he was going to speak, but he was overcome with another coughing fit. Through the jerking he raised two long craggy fingers.

She smiled and nodded, pulling the gloves up to her wrists. She grabbed the loaves from the wooden racks behind her and placed them on the counter.

“Did you want them sliced?”

She looked up.

“Sir? Did you want your rye sliced?”

He was blowing his nose into yet another cloth handkerchief. She decided to slice the loaves. All of her elderly customers wanted their bread cut and she was in no mood to be chastised for forgetting.

She placed the first loaf in the industrial machine and closed the metal guard before switching the machine on. As the old machine began to whir, she unhooked the pushing arm to guide the loaf through the blades. After a small bit of resistance, there was the satisfying sound of the bread sliding down the metal ramp. She balanced the sliced loaf in one hand and quickly guided the plastic bag over it. She gave it a quick spin before affixing the tie.

She placed the sliced bread at the cash and prepared to slice the second loaf. She closed the guard. Her finger grazed the switch when she heard something from the old man. She promptly shut the revving machine and faced the client.

“Sorry?”

The man pointed to the sliced bag that she had just deposited in front of him.

“Yes…” She nodded, not knowing what the old man was confused about.

“s’this mine?” he choked out.

She raised her eyes to look around at the shop that was devoid of other clients. “Yes,” she replied with her most patient smile. “You wanted two loaves of rye. I’m just slicing the other one.”

His eyes widened. He looked as if he were about to speak. A quick “mm” sound was formed before he broke off into a wheezy cough.

During his fit she stood somewhat frozen. She wasn’t sure if this was the moment to run to his aid or if this was yet another interruption to his speech. Luckily he recovered quickly and scowled. “No!” he finally pronounced.

“Pardon?”

“No. This is not my order!” He shook his head violently.

She lowered her hands from the machine.

“I didn’t ask for it sliced! I never want it sliced,” he sputtered, drops of his perspiration landing on the bag of bread in front of him.

“Oh… I asked but I guess--”

He interrupted: “I’ve been coming here for years. Chloe knows I never want it sliced.”

Chloe was the owner’s daughter who had not worked there for three years. There were many sun-bleached high school photos displaying the young girl’s apparent transition from gangly teenager to ditzy college student.

The clerk clenched her teeth. “Sorry about that, sir. I’ll bag this one and grab you anoth--”

“I don’t want that one,” he interrupted her again. “You started slicing it… it will go stale.”

She did her very best to hide her frustration.

“Sure,” she piped. She quickly turned to the wall of bread behind her to hide her anger. She hadn’t the patience to argue any more but she would still be cutting into her gains for the day. Boulangerie Champagne still managed to get away with making their staff purchase their “mistakes” and rye was one of the more expensive loaves the bakery offered.

She swiftly prepared the order and rang it up on the till.

“Will you be paying with cash or card?”

The old man produced a wrinkled paper bill depicting a portrait of the queen looking comfortably in her thirties. She took the bill wondering how long it had lived in the pocket of the man’s moth-eaten overcoat. She pressed the button to open the change drawer and began counting to make change for the twenty. She came to the total and was about to close the drawer when she caught a flash of white paper peeking out from beneath. Her drawing. She could just discern the angry horrifying eyes of the child she felt compelled to draw.

She glanced up.

“Can I offer you a paper bag?” she asked. “I’m sure it would be easier to carry your bread home.”

The man nodded with an “mhm” as he accepted his change before bursting into more hacks and coughs.

She took this opportunity to quickly grab his bags of rye and place them behind the counter.

She opened one of the folded cardboard bags with the gaudy Boulangerie Champagne logo and waited for the man to double over. Soon enough he ducked behind the counter clutching his handkerchief to his face as his fit reached its apex.

She swiped the drawing from its hiding place and secured it firmly at the bottom of the bag. The clerk took a moment to look at the image; a slight figure with the clear outlines of underdeveloped bones piercing through the translucent skin. Black soulless angry eyes glared out from deep sockets as if the image resented being gazed at by the viewer.

The clerks drawings had always been pretty dark. A young cousin had burst into tears after falling upon one of her sketchbooks. Even her own mother had told her that the images she drew could easily “scare the life out of someone”.

She woke from her momentary contemplation and placed the bread in the bag. The clerk then passed the package to the old man, who had only just recovered. He took the bag and paused.

“Here. I’ll get the door for you.” She glided out from behind the counter and headed towards the exit.

He nodded and gave a grunt as he began his leaving shuffle. He limped towards the clerk holding the door open. She welcomed the summer breeze and the fresh air on her face. Unfortunately it was soon replaced by the unmistakable odor emanating from the old man. It was the scent of sweat and potentially urine.

She held her breath and pursed her lips as he hobbled past her.

Once he had travelled a few feet she sang, “Have a nice day!”.

He didn’t hear or acknowledge her.

She closed the door and took a deep breath. She snuck to the storefront window to watch the man start crossing the road. She watched him potter away and eventually turn the corner. He clutched the paper bag tightly in his hand.

He was finally out of sight.

She hoped forever.