Too Much Time On His Hands

So, I was buying party supplies at the PartyAmerica store--a surprisingly joyless square box lined with celebratory items. Odd, how aisle after aisle of wedding decor, birthday invitations and mylar balloons leaves one with the total impression of white linoleum floors under overly bright fluorescent lights.

Anyway.

I took my items to the register, where I was met by the stoner high school boy wearing ragged jeans, a black t-shirt from an obscure band, dark and dead black dyed hair. He looked shrunken in this fiercely bright place. I guess Goth fashion just doesn't hold up against perky shiny helium balloons.

He rang up my purchases, swiped my card and presented me with the receipt to sign.

"Man," he said. "Your signature rocks."