On the drive to work the other day, I passed a man standing outisde a housing development by a big sign that said, "WHISPERING GLEN." This man must be Glen, I thought. It must be a pretty exclusive community. No whispering! Or else we label you and cast you out for all to see! Still, I mean…Peeping Tom, I might have a problem with. Whistling Pete, even. But Whispering Glen seemed harmless enough. Pleasant, even.

I got to work. My favorite is when I work with Sergio. This guy is…..great. Chilean. Always has a witty comeback. Or a big grin and a little dance.
"Sergio, hola, hola…"
"Hello, Steven." he winks.
"I’m going to need some vegetables from the market…I’ve got to start cooking…"
"Keep your pants on, Steven. Everything is good. No. All good. Everything is all good."
"My pants? What is this expression? Who gets so angry, they just–drop their pants? Oh! That’s it! That’s the last straw! There go the pants! Now look what you’ve done."
He’s dancing. A blissful smile across his face.
"All this suffering, Steven. In the end, you will die, and all this suffering will be for nothing." He does a little twirl. He’s right. I need to chill out.

I was a competitive child. I remember eating lunch when I was five or so and reading "Betcha can’t eat just one!" on a bag of potato chips. And I thought…I bet I can! and I did. And then I thought, wait…over what kind of time period? Like an hour? A week? Do you mean one chip, ever? I’m in! Let’s do this! Lay down some rules and let’s settle this thing!

Anyhow.

There’s a man who’s been browsing intently for about ten minutes.
"Can I help you find something, Sir?"
"Y’all ain’t got no nachos?"
"Yes. I mean, yes, we ain’t. Don’t. Have nachos." He glares at me.
"Just a burrito then."
"We’re Spanish. So…no burritos."
"Ok, one Heineken."
"We…uh…don’t serve beer."
"What’s this?" He holds up a package of Pebrella.
"Oh Pebrella? It’s kind of a wild thyme."
"Oh yeah?" He brightens. "How so?"
"How so?"
"Yeah, how is it a wild time?"
"Right. Thyme. Like the herb. Grows wild. Wild thyme. So…"
We regard each other silently.
"This store sucks."
"Yeah…well…" I’ve got nothing. He glares at me again, shakes his head, tsking softly, and lumbers out the door.

We sell a lot of Iberian and Latin American music. Sometimes I pass the time by checking out the covers. One in particular sticks out to me. This Spanish girl posing fashionably, heavy makeup, hair tousled seductively, cradling…bagpipes? Hm. She’s a bagpiper. No problem there. Bagpiper/funny, kooky friend? Sure. Bagpiper/mysterious loner hiking into the woods to play a dirge on the mountaintop in the misty morn? Sure. But bagpiper/seductive tauntress? Tough to pull off. Because you know there’s going to be a romantic moment where the lighting is soft and warm, and the candles are flickering, and you’re both a little fluttery in the tummy, and there’ll be that sparkle in her eyes, and she’ll say, "wait right here…" and you’ll break into a wide, nervous grin, jittery knees, running your hands through your hair…and she’ll come back with the pipes. And as she’s serenading you with goose squawks, huffing and puffing like the big bad wolf, you’ll be aching for the girlfriend with the scribbled poetry and tuneless guitar weeping and artsy photos of her feet. Mark my words.

Sergio is back with the vegetables. He flutters in the door, hips shaking, imaginary castanets clapping. I’ve always wanted to slice vegetables like a real pro. Knife flashing, perfect slivers of red and green and yellow, turning tufts of leaves to confetti. And I can, I’m good with a knife. But all it takes is one cute girl to say, "Excuse me, can I get change for a dollar?" and I lose consciousness for a few seconds, and plow the blade right into my fingers.
"Sure, sure, here you go."
"Um…are you bleeding?"
"No."
"Ok. Well. You are."
"Ok. Thanks."
"Thanks for the change. And good luck with the bleeding."
"Not bleeding. But thanks. Good luck with the quarters." Good luck with the quarters? Good grief. At least Whispering Glen knows when to keep quiet.