"Oh, well this is just irresistible," an older customer says while examining a giant wire brush that looks like something a chimney sweep would use.
The next customer has a small black "x" on the knuckle of his middle finger on his right hand. I don't mention it.
A couple more people mention the distinct cold breeze that is being funneled directly onto the cash register and me. But I'm happy just to have an open garage doorway view of the train tracks and trees.
About once every few hours, there's a crash, whether glass or wood or metal. Most of the time no one's hurt. On windy days it's more like once every hour.
Mr. Wong is on his third trip to the register in an hour. I can't tell if he's more hoarder than landlord or vice versa.
I find myself in a lull in between customers and wonder which of the 9 or 10 cleaning, emailing, article-reading, or stocking things I should do. Too late. A customer is already asking me a question.
