It was a brutally hot summer afternoon in any suburban sprawl America.  A young man parked his car and walked into a brick building nicely isolated from the other businesses by several parking lots.

"I'm looking for a heavy duty snare stand, the last one I had broke." 

The young man, tall and thin, knew where the pieces were at.  He knew that the salesman was going to try and sell him some exorbitantly overpriced brand name piece of equipment. 

(This is ridiculous.  I'm not even buying the instrument and I'm going to lay down a few hours' work.)

You see, he only told the clerk what he was looking for because he wanted to have a conversation.  There are two people who work at the mid-sized music store.  I call it mid-sized because while it certainly isn't the music mega-store, where friendly sales associates assist customers in making their purchases, it also isn't the mom and pop shop where your friend cuts you a deal on every last thing you buy, from a Fender Stratocaster all the way down to a handful of Dunlop picks.  It isn't somewhere between either; it is one of the two stores, depending on which of the two people are working. 

(Where is Sean?  I know he works on Wednesdays.  I want to know how Olivia is doing, and I'm sure he'd be glad to see me.)

Today, the lanky bastard dealt with the friendly sales associate.  Although his friend wasn't working, the tall, thin man was stuck in the assumption that he was.

"My friend was pounding on my drums and broke the snare stand."

"Why isn't he buying the new one?"

"He's doing me a huge favor by just playing the drums."

(I kept rambling on about my pathetic band.  He doesn't care about this.)

After making eyes at the snare stands costing well over fifty dollars, the lanky bastard settled on a fine heavy-duty unit coming in at just $20.99. 

(How hard do people hit the snare drum?  Half of these stands weigh ten pounds.)

"My card isn't swiping, is it?"

"...I need another form of payment..."

"Really?"

"No."

They both muffled laughs.

"Take care."

"See you later."

Back in the devastating heat of the angry summer sunlight, the tall young man wiped the sweat off of his forehead and lowered the windows of his car before getting in.  He threw the hunk of metal he just bought in the backseat, along with the paper receipt.

(The receipt is going to fly out of the window, but I don't care.)

He turned on the car and drove out of the parking lot.  His mind raced between the stimulation of the four young women in the car in front of him and the desolution of his job.  By the next stoplight, the Honda filled with happy girls had turned left and the tall young man was left to his own devices.

(People say they hate the job but love the people.  I can't say that.  I can almost say the opposite.  I love the job, until there are people involved.  It's easy.  I love some of the people, but certainly not enough to warrant "loving the people.")

As he was lost in thought, he drove past two young boys operating a lemonade stand.  $.25 for a cup of lemonade.

(I'm a nice person.  I'm a good person.  It's not my fault that I can't say "I love the people," is it?  I try to love the people.  I do love a lot of the people.  The people, though?  Frankly, I can't stand a lot of the people.)

The young man, even on autopilot, turned before he ought to.  He was circling the block.

(The people I don't care for don't know that I don't care for them.  I'm nice to them.  I ask them about their days, I become interested.  I couldn't care less.  I don't care.  I do the same with the people I love, except it feels real.  It is real.  These are my friends, but how can they tell?)

The young man pulled his car over to the curb and left it running.

(How does Sean know he's my friend?  I'm just as friendly with the sales associate as I am with him.  I indicate the same amount of interest.)

"Hey there buddy, I see you're selling drinks!"

"Yes."

"It's a great day to be doing this, it's really hot."

"Yes."

"Let me get a lemonade."

"Okay."

The small boy, about eight years old, opened a small cooler and grabbed a pitcher of lemonade.  He put a single ice cube in a small styrofoam cup, and poured the cup full of lemonade.

"Have you sold a lot of drinks today?"

"No, only one so far."

The boy paused.

"But we just started."

(Don't worry little man, you have nothing to be ashamed of.)

"It's a hot day, I'm sure you'll sell some more."

The little boy was still busy filling the cup.

"Are you ready for summer and school to be over?"

"Yes.  We only have one more full day and two half days."

The boy's father walked up to the front door of the house to watch his son making his first sell of the afternoon.  From behind the glass door, he beamed a smile at the young man, who returned it.

(I am a good person.)

The young boy and young man exchanged the cup of lemonade with one set of hands and a quarter with the other set of hands.

"Thank you!"

"You're welcome."

"Have a nice day, I hope you sell a lot of lemonade!"

"Thank you."

The young man got back in his running car and drove away, waving goodbye to his new young friend as he left.  Although he had been both physically and mentally exhausted from his day's work under the tireless sun, a sip of the cold lemonade brought peace to the young man's mind.  He was content as he casually finished his commute home.

(This is not a bad world.)

The receipt did not blow out of the car window as anticipated, but rather got caught up in a wind current and blew around the back seat of the car during the drive home.  The young man parked his car at his house, and the receipt gently came to rest in the back seat.  As the receipt calmly lay on the cloth, it reminded the young man of himself.  Try as it might have, the receipt ultimately stayed where it was put by a force stronger than itself; the tall, thin man.  Tired after all of it's blowing around, it lay peacefully in the setting afternoon sunlight.

The young man walked into his house, and, his continued feeling of contentedness having imbibed him with drowsiness, he took a nap.

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