It was his turn. Old Man lumbered up to the cashier in slow motion but only to forget what he intended to order. So he lumbered back to look at the menu wall again. This whole time I kept my distance from him, holding my breath – just in case Old Man had an old man's smell.
“I want Choice A.” Old Man finally muttered.
“Choice A... What else do you want?” Cashier Woman asked, so far everything seemed normal.
Old Man pondered for about 3 seconds, and said, “I'd drink Coke.”
This was when Cashier Woman lost her cool, “What else do you want?! What else do you want?! What else do you want?!” She chanted at the top her lungs as if Old Man was deaf. As far as I was concerned, Old Man already said Coke, thus I wasn't so sure who was the deaf one here. And her sudden transformation from a sweet, welcoming doll to a short-tempered, hysteric crazy bitch would have made people with maniac depression seem affable.
This was not the first time I saw Cashier Woman freak out at old customers. She was triggered not by what they did, nor what they said, but who they were.
I found that disturbing. And I don't even like old people.
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