The Lunch Room

“Why do people thank us for doing our job, Mossy?”

The thin-eyed, puffy-faced man continued chewing on his tuna and lettuce sandwich that he’d brought to this dingy lunch room for years, and swallowed.

“What are you talking about, Dill?” His eyes locked onto his colleague’s.

“Well we’re just lowly sales people at a convenience store. We stand around behind a till, scan things that people bring to us, take their money, and wish them a nice rest of day; it’s not like we’re giving it to them for free or delivering it to their doorstep. We’re not convenient, we’re just another place that people come to before they get to places they really want to be.”

Mossy stared, with crumbs around his mouth, at the delivery notes taped on the door – his thinking face.

“I guess I see where you’re coming from”, he grumbled. “You could say we’re replaceable. Anyone could do the job we do, but we’re just the guys who happen to be doing it.”

Dill’s drooped features sank even further down, he took a somber swig from a grey bottle of water.


Dill’s ears perked but he didn’t turn to meet Mossy’s glance, committing instead to a cracked tile next to his feet.

“Without us, during this entire day, during every day that we’ve been here, those people would have been slightly worse off. Maybe not by much, but worse off nonetheless.”

Mossy’s sturdy gaze was met finally by that of the boy to his right.

“I guess you could say they’re just thankful that we’re there for that brief moment in their busy lives. They thank us for existing.”

Dill smiled at his friend, looked at the clock, and headed for the door. His friend smiled and followed behind.

Featured Image: Joseph Hirsch


4 thoughts on “The Lunch Room

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s