Martin Dink looked around him. The same monochromatic products, the same muttering, slow moving customers, and the same somber, red-vested employees, only all the lines curved around a bulbous abstraction. He removed the prescription glasses by the bridge and slipped them back into the ivory tower casing, simultaneously pressing his eyes together and moaning. The glasses fell from the stand. He moaned again, bent down and replaced them with a shove this time, then stood tall, flattening the flaps of his vest against his thin belly. A hollow, tin voice echoed throughout the store:

“Dink, customer service, please. Dink to customer service.”

He strutted toward the check-out counter, more as a way to catalyze critical thought through variable locomotion than the residual cool-factor.
Though he went to work each day with chip optimism, Martin Dink hated his job. Not only did every customer ignore his conversation-starters, but they often refused to make eye contact. This perpetual isolation, this relentless cold-shoulder, made Martin, an otherwise inconsolable optimist, a very bitter young man.
The customer laid down a hair-dryer, three boxes of cereal, a DVD, Q-tips. Dink rolled his eyes, shameless of his heresy against Sav-Mart’s Code of Ethics, thinking to himself that this woman is just like all the others: a mother of two thinking that she’s doing her family a favor by bringing home the newest Disney Sing-a-Long.
But, then she placed the last item on the counter. A Boba Fett action figure, complete with lever action joint mobility and a firing pistol.

Dink’s jaw dropped, another “no-no” in the Sav-Mart Code of Ethics. This was the coolest toy he’d seen a mom bring home.

“Do…do you have a son?” he managed.

“Yes,” she beamed, pleased that her maternity could be acknowledged. “I have an eight-year-old.”

“And he likes Star Wars?”

“Oh, yes.” Dink’s breathing began to quicken and he became suddenly mindful of a nagging thirst.

“Boba Fett…that’s an interesting choice. Most kids like Anakin or Luke Skywalker. Sometimes Darth Vader and Yoda, but Boba Fett…” She narrowed her eyes, suspicious, as if Martin were going to utter something crude or offensive. The look made him self-conscious, but didn’t cork his enthusiasm. “You have a very special little boy, ma’am.”

The woman took a subtle step back. She said nothing, but grinned nervously and refused to meet his eyes.

“Do you mind just bagging my groceries, please?”

“Oh, oh! Yes, certainly, ma’am!”