“Take a number.”
Said the beef man behind the counter. I turned my head from side to side and glanced behind.
It’s just me.
“Why?” I inquire.
“Rules.” Says he.
I step up; give the number dispenser a yank. The number two tears off the roll from inside the bowels of the Pick-A-Number machine. The beefy clerk presses a brass button in the middle of the counter. Above him clapboard squares franticly rotate and finally settle displaying the number 2. I smile, then the remaining digits 134 appear. I drop my number to the floor and head for the door.
The Line
By Jeff Hite
It is a thin line that I walk. Once step to the left or right could spell total disaster. I have to be very careful, if my toes so much as move off the line it could cause trouble. So I carefully place one foot in front of the other, watching the line in front of me. It is a careful dance that I must dance. I close my eyes and take a deep breath to keep my mind focused on the task ahead.
“Keep it moving professor. If you walk too slowly I’ll have to give you other tests”