He browses in rows one by one, then two by four; finally sweeping whole shelves with his burly hand, grabbing New Yorker and Smithsonian and Granta delight. Hoping for a little literature with his burger and fries.
Next up, he approaches the cash register as whole mobs of little, old ladies scatter from his unshaven sight. When the girl at the counter seems poised to ask a polite question, he takes a Wall StreetJournal from the rack, and brings up a crumpled wad of bills from the depths of his pocket, laying them on the counter.
“Will this be all?” she asks.
“Yes, ma’am. I aim for the best.”
He walks away, one dollar short of his correct change.
At night, the books sit unread, the stocks untallied. He lies in bed, a dim bulb casting shadows about his face. He frowns a bit ponderously and then lights up a smile.
Tomorrow, there will always be the Times.
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