up ahead at the front of
the line, creating traffic by sheer force of their breezy, unhurried
incompetence. “We’ll get the next one,” they chirp as the light turns red while
they’re lost on their phone or in a wasteland of thought. “We’ll get there,”
they say to any suggestion that just maybe they could do better than they have
been.
The dimwit calmly puts
change back in a wallet, carefully arranging each dollar, blissfully unaware of
the line piling behind. The dimwit assigned to help you knows you are in a
hurry but just cannot muster the major act of will required to hurry along just
a little.
There’s always some dimwit
holding me up. I just know it. I can almost see them in my mind’s eye: with
that smile that says, “If you could put an ear next to my head, you would hear
the roar of the ocean.”
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