dancing robots

I just finished working my third week at the coffee cart in the hospital. So far, so good. It isn't the best job, but the hours are extremely flexible and I make decent tips. I've managed to hurt my self a lot, though, such as various burns on my fingers, some wicked bruises and sore muscles from the damn espresso machine. However, a conversation with a man walking by describes my experience so far at the cart.

I'm sitting in my chair, reading Maggie Cassidy and watching for customers. It's been slow for about an hour, with me selling mainly regular coffees. Enter older gentleman, in mid to late 50s, bent over, walking, with his hand supporting his lower back. Man looks over at me and smiles.

"How're you today?" he asks me.

"I'm alright," I respond, trying to cover the sleepiness in my voice with a smile. "How're you today?"

"Terrible," he responds. Man hobbles away to outpatient surgery.

My smile is wiped off my face and I let out a small, "oh" under my breath, not knowing the proper response.

Yeah, I kid you not. That happened. The place is depressing and makes me dread getting old. I want to look forward to old age. I don't want to end up in a hospital, in pain, young faces pitying me as I'm wheeled away to my doom.

Blah.

I'm loving Maggie Cassidy by Jack Kerouac. I've decided if I have a little girl, she's going to be named Margaret Cassidy.

I need to take more pictures.