Confusion reigns at the self-checkout stations in a Brooklyn supermarket. The man caught in the vortex of the three little girls spinning around him can't make up his mind which station to use, and his ambivalence has spread like a virus to a seemingly weak-minded middle-aged lady, who now stands stupefied in the middle of the aisle, under some impression that the machine she could use is broken, even though there's no reason for her to believe that.
When another guy seems about to wade into the fray and just take a machine, even though there's a line (which I'm in), I explain to him, "No, see, that man has to go, and the woman, then me, and then, I guess, you."
"It's so much easier when there's a narrator," he says brightly, and I can't decide if he's being sarcastic or not.
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