October 1, 2007 – The Cashier

           Every Tuesday morning I come in and pay my cab lease.  Before me sits Stanley, who lest not be confused with our idiot mechanic.  I’m sure Stanley is a nice guy, seems that way at least.  It’s hard to gather much from our conversations.  Well, I don’t know if it is actually a conversation.  I talk and he just mumbles unintelligible words and drools on himself with a glazed over look on his face, reminiscent of something Salvador Dali may have painted.

This isn't Stanley, but he looks like a raisin as well.

Don’t know his exact age, surely approaching the century mark.  I mean he’s really fucking old.  Nothing against old people, but my time is valuable, and I don’t want to spend one more minute than I have to in that office.  I was told that Stanley works here because he is bored, and that he works for free, or next to nothing.   I’ve never seen anyone count money so slow, it takes him like three minutes to count a stack of fifteen $20 bills.  Then he recounts it at least twice, or more if you don’t stop him.  I may just pay with hundreds next time.  I once brought in a dollar coin, which simply baffled him.  I’d be surprised it he had ever heard of a credit card, or if anyone in that office had heard of one for that matter.