A Pressing Matter

The guy working behind the counter wraps up my sandwich. Pictures of bright, ripe vegetables hang on the walls. My stomach growls. The lady in front of me in line moves over to the soft drink machine.

Huuuummmmmm. Click. Huuuummm. Click. HumClick. Satisfied with her fill, she places the lid onto her cup and holds up an empty cup to the dispenser. Her son requests a turn.

Hummmm. Click. Hummmmm. Click. HumClick. HumClickHumClickHumClick.

I want to rip the waxed paper cup from the tween’s hand. Unlike Mom–who executed a few humclicks to mitigate the froth buildup and avoid the unintended overfill–Son keeps playing around. This is not red-light green-light, kid. Get this one a pair drumsticks. He obviously has rhythm. I exhale.

I listen to the environment to compensate for my low vision. My hearing isn’t better than it used to be; I unconsciously focus on it, so I notice more. To the uninitiated, it might appear that I have super hearing. I do not.

Except for glancing over at the soda machine, my demeanor betrayed none of my observations about the antsy operator. I leave the shop. It’s sunny outside. I squint and consider drink dispenser design. Can someone invent thumbs-optional dispensers for other items? Perhaps around the house. It would be neat to push a lever to access something besides the ice chute on the fridge, a multipurpose vending machine.

HumClick.

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