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The Non-schizophrenic
“Yes, but what about the pommegranites?” he asked. I looked over the gas pump
to the fellow on the other side. No one near him, and he certainly wasn't
talking to me. “I need the pommegranites,” he said, really needing the
pommegranites it seems.
I peered into his car. Couldn't be one hundred percent sure, but there seemed
to be no one in the car. What an odd fellow, I thought.
“Okay, maybe we cam substiture kwumquates,” he said, replacing the gas nozzle
to the pump and turning his head just enough for me to catch the ear piece
and the wire snaking down to a unit on his belt. “But people are going to
notice.” I just noticed that he wasn't schizophrenic.
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