A Moment's Notice

I make it my business to notice moments. I do a pretty good job of identifying them and recognizing the uniqueness of myriad different ones I encounter, but do a mediocre job of recounting and recording them-there should always be more time to write (sigh). Here's one I couldn't resist. 

You've been there before. That little sandwich shop, sometime mid-afternoon, long after the lunch rush and well before the dinner crowd. You step inside, smell fresh bread and walk to the abandoned register. There's no music playing for ambience, not one other customer and no one to make my sandwich. 

The guy eventually shows up to smile out of duty and take my order. Simple. Until it comes time for payment. I flash my credit card and see an ever-so-slight dilation of his pupils, the way your eyes expand in minimal surprise. He's been here before. I can tell he's scared. Cash would have been far easier.

He swipes the card and waits for it to do its thing. Clearly the machine is using dial-up technology. We wait for two full minutes.

The moment ensues: here we are, two grown men, perhaps nothing in common, perhaps everything-we'll never know. I look to my right, pretending to care about the decor of the place as he looks left, out the window, to notice any change since the last customer. Silence. We both tire and he looks right to check on the ham and salami and turkey in the hopper while I look left, pretending to care about the ingredients of Sun chips. He looks down at the credit card machine as if willing it to crank out that (expletive) receipt and I look down as if willing it to do anything at all. 

We start the routine all over, desperately searching for an object to focus on. We both look left and right and back again and as though a choreographed production is born of this moment, I begin tapping my foot to the silence.