A market, located on the intersection of a small street and another large, main arterial was where Sam worked. He didn’t say much, just kept an eye on the merchandise, loaded and unloaded goods, rang up groceries, gave change. And when people commented on the delicious tomatoes and how cheap the cherries were, even out of season, he barely looked at them: he was in his world, occupied with his collection of ships. Ships in bottles, mostly found through a combination of pawn shops and ebay. Only once he did snap awake, when he heard one young woman ask her petite friend why she didn’t attempt to be proactive in her hapless life.
“Well, then we’d have nothing to talk about,” she answered.