The Customer by Jeremy Hawkins

For Allison, whose hair was short and mussed, and arms, thick with muscle from years of rock climbing; it wasn't unusual to be addressed as sir. Accustomed to this insult, she even enjoyed confronting it with half-smug humor; but when the man in the gray suit—a customer of the camping store where she worked—called her “sir,” three times as she showed him a two-man tent, she felt justified in saying
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Pink pusfilled bat.

Disembodied voice.

One frozen Tootsie pop.

Fifteen dollars, with Benjamin Franklin’s face on them.

we knew the company was failing after the fourth door slam,
but our fingers scurried back to their duties, clattering on keyboards
while the sun dipped behind the glass towers. it was friday,
& an hour later we traders were gathered on thin metal chairs
in a warm break room to crack open styrofoam escapes,
oscillate with laughter & wave wooden chopsticks like wands.