One Apple A Day #94
He is a cashier in a bank. That is his job. But it would be a cashier even if he was a painter or a builder. Everything in his features, in his posture, stated that he is doing what he was meant to do. When I enter the local branch of my bank, I didn’t have to ask who I had to talk with. It was him, no doubts. And he does everything a good cashier is supposed to do. While he is doing the operations, I need I keep observing him. His hands, his shoulders, the way he writes or taps on the keyboard, the way he silently moves the lips saying the numbers in his head.
He behaves like a perfect cashier of a bank. But, there is something awkward in the whole scene. I sense that there is something out of place in the picture in front of me, but I can’t see it. It’s when he leaves to go and pick something from a colleague that I spot it. It was there all the time, but I was concentrated on the cashier. Under his desk, his backpack is left leaning against the drawers. It’s a black and pink rucksack, like the ones we used at school. And it’s covered with patches of hard rock bands. When he comes back, I’m smiling. You rock, buddy.