I'm by myself at the coffeehouse, have a line of eight people, and this stank ass balding hippie freak cuts in front of the line and says "Where's the recycling?"
"I don't know. Try over by the trash can, there's probably a box or something."
He does this evil, impatient half-laugh. "There is no box. Where is your recycle?"
"Sir, I don't know. This is a galleria, I'm sure there's recycling somewhere in here, but I don't know where."
He pushes his glasses up over his nose. "You don't know??? Where do you recycle?"
"At home." I say. The lady behind him clears her throat. "I'm really busy right now. There's a security guard over there who can point you in the direction of the recycle."
"I think you need to talk to your boss and get recycling in here."
"My boss owns a chain of coffeehouses, all of which have recycling in them," this is probably a lie, "but this is a galleria storefront, so only the people who run the galleria can install recycling, so why don't you go talk to the security guard, and he can point you to their offices."
"But if I talk to you, and you talk to your boss, then we can fix the real problem. Recycling is good, don't you think?"
And because Celeste is quitting, and I'm tired, and I'm all itchy from having shaved, I say "Why don't you go back to Burlington Vermont and let me work."
And he is stunned. "How did you know I was from Burlington?"
Because you smell like cheap pot and week old farts. "I used to live up there, and you look kind of familiar, now if you'll excuse me." This is a lie. But, generally, assholes who want to impress their equally stank, dreadlocked girlfriends by antagonizing coffeehop workers about environmental concerns are all from Burlington, Vermont.
Stanky goes away to try and find Canadian Hydro, and I return to the line, where someone is telling me about how soldiers are trained to kill, but no one ever untrains them, and I'm about to ask him why he's telling me this when I realize I'm wearing my "God Bless America" t-shirt, and I don't have time to explain that it's ironic, I just want him to take his machiatto and leave me alone.