Pro Bono

Michael Stipe whined about pain
through the shoddy speakers of the convenience store
as I made my way towards the counter
with a soda and a candy bar in hand.
What did he know about hurting?
How could he speak for everybody?
It bothered me that his unconvincing assumptions
raked in millions for him and his pals.
Talk about cashing in on another's misfortune.
At least my dirges are non-profit.

"Sorry, this is all I have," I told the middle-aged
Hindu as I formed stacks of quarters on his spotless counter.

"It's OK. I can use them," he replied in that comically
sing-song voice standard of the stereotype.
He popped open the register and made room for the
oncoming influx of change in the appropriate receptacle.

No one was in line behind me so I took my time
enjoying the cranked AC of the store as Michael finished
belting his bald blues to an uncaring audience of two.
I slid the stacks of four his way and grabbed the goods
I'd come for after stretching out a cupped hand for my change.
As I left, the chime on the door rang with a single solemn note
unobtainable for any pop singer still among the living.

My buddy was waiting in my truck
with a familiarly impatient irreverence
that snapped me out of my pensive half-slumber.

"What the hell took so long?" he demanded, taking the soda
I handed him as he flicked a butt at the curb
and missed.

"Some schmuck was emptying his kid's piggy-bank,"
I said. There were no other cars in the parking lot.
Still, the excuse was accepted without resistance.
It's amazing how far a free soft drink will get you.

It happened over a month ago and I'm not sure
why I chose to remember it. It may have something to do
with the clerk's heavy-handed cologne application
and how it amused me to imagine that it'd be enough to make
my aural marauder go off-key if he were there
singing his lousy arpeggiated hit in person.

The day is long, alright, Michael.
Some of us just handle it better.