The beer guy posted next to Track 112 in Grand Central.

It had been a taxing day, shall we say, at work. I waited for the 6 train at 28th to grab the 5:46, get home, and relax while playing cars with Little G.

I waited. I waited. I waited some more. The garbled message came on the loudspeaker: there was an uptown 6 train approaching 14th Street.

I was going to miss the 5:46, and had to endure the inexcusable 24 minute wait (what is this, Topeka?) for the 6:10. The 6 train took 13 minutes to arrive.

I got to Grand Central and decided a beer might help my frame of mind. I approached you, doughy beer man in pale blue shirt and pale white complexion, my eye on a Bud tall boy.

I thought I could pay in silver, unload some of that change that had been clanking around in my pocket all day. It took a moment. You helped the guy behind me. That was cool.

I came up with $1.80, 20 cents short. I paid with a five and you gave me change. The whole exchange took about a minute.

I thanked you and, as I started to walk away, you looked away and mumbled something. I slipped into default mode, smiling and nodding.

A few seconds later, it dawned on me what you said:

“You just cost me like five customers.”

Mr. Beer Man, I’m sure you have rough days too: People who pay with $20s, people who complain when you run out of Mike’s Hard Lemonade, people who yell at you for charging $4.50 for bland American claret.

What, Mr. Beer Man, did you seek to gain by informing me that I’d just cost you “like five customers?”

I’ll be taking my Bud money elsewhere, dear Beer Man.

Sincerely,

Trainjotting