She got the job nobody wants, assisting all the tried-on clothes from the fitting room as they spawn to hangars then back to headwaterracks on the floor of a Target deemed Super. No one was trying on clothes at 9pm on a Thursday except my daughter so as I waited for her I watched this lady who’d obviously drawn the short stick and I wondered if she was well acquainted with sticks of that length. She sighed a hundred sighs but spoke aloud once inviting me into her labor with a tired laugh: boy, people sure make a mess. She was not pushing a red wheelbarrow but I did think in that moment that so much also depends on red Target carts laden with messes that boy, people sure can make. As she pushed past me with her load I said thank you, and the lady who got the job nobody wants looked at me as if I had spoken in Vulcan or Cantonese or some speech used by a tribe hidden deep in the bush. It was like she had no context for this simple coupling of words; I might as well have said white chickens. She went on about her duty and I stood beside a display of two ladies in capris looking seductively at me and thought we the people are quite social these days but I fear we are missing the mark for we are not kind, and in a world that was and is and always will be built of short sticks so much depends upon daily kindness for without it we are little more than sheep or goats or salmon who spend themselves against the current only to finally die in the shallows. My daughter found what she was looking for, we exited automatic doors, and before bending to get in the car she said thank you for taking me to Target. As we drove away I felt my cheek glazed with rain.