Minute for What (continued)

The supermarket bustled at the close of another work day. Rob loaded up his mini-cart and waited in line. He waited until the store was nearly empty, with only a handful of shoppers in the aisles, before approaching the cashier.

From the looks of him, the cashier was either worn out or sick of his job. A perturbed expression hung on his face as he waved his hand over each of Rob's selections, a skintight glove reading each and feeding them into the total. He didn't look up until the end of the transaction.

"Anything else for you, father."

The pistol made an uncomfortable lump in the pocket of Rob's coat and he barely heard the question over the roaring in his ears. The last word rang out like a scream in a confessional: father. He had forgotten to take off his collar!

What you gonna do? asked a nasally, desultory voice, but when he turned around there was no sign of Bob Dylan's ghost lurking. It was taunting him from some invisible place beyond the pale.

Rob jabbed the pay reader with his thumb, allowing it to read his distinctive print and charge the groceries to his depleted account, where overdraft protection would add yet another fine to his growing list of infractions.

"Thanks, father," muttered the clerk, shoving the heavy bag into his arms.

Around the corner Rob tore off his clerical collar in a rage. Any onlooker might have mistaken his righteous indignation as that of another soul losing in battle against the devil. If they stopped to listen, they would have heard most un-Christ-like utterances.

Given the silence of heaven in response to his profanity prayers and weighted down with groceries he couldn't afford, Rob was prepared to give up all hope.

TO BE CONTINUED