When it gets too cold outside I count myself lucky that I have the luxury of a scarf. Nevermind that I wouldn't be able to buy a new one if I lost it, and I wouldn't even think of purchasing a similar one, in my current situation. But that isn't a problem I have to deal with now. Instead, when I want to go out, I'll take my brown jacket with its worn elbows, put on layers of thin socks, and step out the door, but not before carefully taking my scarf down from the hook it hangs from. I'll wrap it around my neck, and ready to set out, I'll leave my apartment.
Today I'm out to fulfill the necessities that have run out, and at this late an hour it'll be hard to find a store to serve me, but it's okay because I can barely feel the biting cold. My nose is already starting to run, and I can't take my hands out of my pockets, but beneath my coat my body still thinks its sitting inside. But why shouldn't it, and why shouldn't I imagine the same thing. How nice it would be to open my fridge and find the milk still sitting there, not expired or empty, but just the right amount for my need, enough left over for breakfast the next day. What a dream it would be to pour myself a glass and sit down, in a comfortable chair and a blanket to drape over my legs. After finishing my glass and enjoying some nice quiet time, I would go over to my bed, with an even heavy blanket, and slowly change into pajamas, out of whatever leisure clothes I had worn that day. I would lay my wet stuff to dry by the heater, and then go off to have a restful sleep before starting a new day.
But in my rush of wishes I had not noticed my surroundings until I was beside two men yelling. They almost face to face, but one was on a step above the other, and so it gave the illusion of two people of very different height. They were both red faced, and not from the weather, and I stopped for a second to listen in.
“You can't come into the store now, sir, we're closed” said the man standing on the top step, the spit in his gray beard starting to freeze. “I've closed everything up, put everything away. There's nothing for you to buy.” “You're turning away a customer, a paying customer, because I'm a little late?” replied the other man. His arms were bare, but he was paying this no mind, instead focusing all his energy on yelling. “Where do you get off turning away my money? It's cold out, and I want to buy a coat. You sell coats, and I want to buy one.” “I can't sell to you what I don't have. You'll have to come back tomorrow like everyone else. I can't hang around all night waiting for customers. I have other things to do, you know.” The man below kicked snow when he heard this. “What is this? Some indifference where you sleep on a pile of money? I don't think you have the ability to turn away a paying customer like this. If you did, you wouldn't had such a reputation of being a miser, a cheapskate, a penny pincher!” “I'm not a penny pincher! If anything, it's you, who can only come after dark after spending the day peddling money off honest people.”
I stopped listening at this, before it delved into anything resembling civility, and continued down the street. They had noticed that I had been listening, and obviously both were too embarrassed to continue, realizing their argument had reached such a public place. But I turned a corner and finally found the lights still on in a building, and small store advertising all the food with hand written price tags and clerks who know the tax for everything in store.
I entered in, and was happy to find it quite balmy inside. I nodded to the man working at the counter, but he only starred back at me with blood shot eyes. I hurried to the back of the store, to grab some milk, but was surprised when I came back. Another person had appeared beside the first clerk, and was fixing me with the same stare. I began to feel nervous, and hurriedly emptied my change onto the counter, pushing it towards them. One of the two men, they must of switched spots because I couldn't tell who was who anymore, whispered to the other, before pushing my money back to me. “You're short two dollars.”
I quickly counted the coins on the counter, before looking again at the price of the milk. I asked if there was some sort of mistake, and one of them said I was still short by two dollars. Their eyes were much more intent on me now, and I could make out the tiny veins around their irises. I began to dig through my pockets, turning them out and searching through every single one. I couldn't turn up any more change, and even my wallet proved no use, holding nothing inside except food stamps, which I tried, but they simply stared back at me. I couldn't escape the feeling that the more time I spent digging through my pockets, the closer and closer they leaned over the counter, as if to lend a hand. But instead they just watched, and finally when I had emptied out all the lint and objects I had onto the counter, I realized that I had begun to sweat. The temperature in the shop had become sweltering, and my clothes had begun to stick to my body. I removed my scarf and put it down on the counter, and noticed that a line had grown behind me in my time. The two men, or perhaps it was only one man, behind the counter were still staring just as intently, not having moved despite whatever perception I held. The counter had grown enormously long, to hold everything I piled on it, and as I starred at the judging eyes of the clerk, I realized that the money I had should be enough. So I grabbed the milk as if to put it back, but instead ran out the door, out into the biting wind, which cooled my body too fast and before I had outrun the screams behind me I realized my mistake in trading my beautiful scarf, my mark from a better time and higher age, for some temporary relief.
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