Patrons mill about the aisles, while muttering in hushed tones. The windows of the small grocery light up with the occasional reflection of overhead lights on the pasty linoleum floors. Uniformed employees smile and ask,“Were you able to find everything today?” With the scan of the day’s first can of peas, the melody will begin. The beeps of each checkout line overlap, creating a thunderous round only heard by one: Clifford Ainsworth. He sits behind the glass of a small nook, deemed his office, near the front entrance. His glassy eyes examine each aisle behind thick lenses. He rests his chin on his hand at an angle, while nodding his head to the chorus of beeps, the nail of his right pointer finger worn down from tapping his brittle wooden desk. After years of observing in that position, they say that his neck is always tilted slightly to the left. All the better for him to crane his head into even the smallest cutlery shelf in the back of the store for inspections. 

“Top o’ the mornin’ boss,” he laughed boisterously. His pants and button-up shirts were always askew. His eyelids were framed with wrinkles from smiling. Randall Kirby was an off-key note in an otherwise faultless symphony. With slender fingers he deftly presses the buttons of the register. His thin wrists lash out like a snake to grasp the next item. He scans with increasing frequency, bringing the melody to a dangerous crescendo. “This will not do,” Clifford muttered to himself, “this simply will not do.” With each day of disruption, the conflicting melodies of the store diminished to an incessant ring. The pointer finger of Clifford’s right hand twitched as he shuffled boxes of cutlery on their shelf in the back of the store. “This will not do,” he whispered with a jolt, “this simply will not do.” 

The sun went down. Kirby’s wrinkled pants rustled as he prepared his belongings to leave. As was his routine for thirty-seven years, Clifford reorganized the cutlery shelf one last time.“Good nigh’ boss!” Kirby said, his spindly fingers tapping against his knee as he walked. The wrinkles on the back of his shirt whispered as they rubbed against his skin. They warped and glowed under the overhead lights with glee. Clifford grabbed a particularly sharp knife in the back of the shelf, cradling it in his hand like a conductor holding his baton. He took a moment to aim before his swollen wrist lashed out like a snake, launching the weapon. Kirby fell dead. Only a muffled squeak and a heavy thump echoed throughout the store to signal the end of his last solo.

Like usual, he sits behind the glass of a small nook, deemed his office, near the front entrance. His glassy eyes examine each aisle behind his thick lenses. He rests his chin on his hand at an angle while nodding his head to a perfect chorus of beeps only heard by one: Clifford Ainsworth.