Artie, thirteen, approached the parking lot attendant, a young man wearing slacks and a jacket sporting the company’s logo.
“Hey,” Artie said, “I bet you make big bucks, man.”
The attendant, Fred Young, sat in his wooden hutch feeling mildly annoyed.
“No,” I only make $1.47 an hour.”
“That’s what I mean by a lot,” Artie said.
“Are you kidding? I’m married and have a kid.”
“Will you lend me eighty-five cents? I want to play pinball.”
Fred reached for his club; he changed his mind—gave Artie the money—but the kid didn’t leave, and Fred heard the click.
“Hey,” Artie said, “I bet you make big bucks, man.”
The attendant, Fred Young, sat in his wooden hutch feeling mildly annoyed.
“No,” I only make $1.47 an hour.”
“That’s what I mean by a lot,” Artie said.
“Are you kidding? I’m married and have a kid.”
“Will you lend me eighty-five cents? I want to play pinball.”
Fred reached for his club; he changed his mind—gave Artie the money—but the kid didn’t leave, and Fred heard the click.
