January 6th, 2011?8:59PM
The broom bristles raked across the floor as August swept thoroughly each corner of the room. It was an old shop, something of a bakery, bred with an ice cream shop. Business was slow this time a year, at least on the ice cream front. He didn?t have to look up for more than a minute to see that his boss was staring at him from across the room, chewing on words with old teeth. ?You still living with your mother, boy?? a name that was more endearment than condescending, but it might?ve been easily mistaken as such by anyone that didn?t know him. Especially with that southern accent.
August laughed under his breath, because it was the second time he?d heard that question today. Raising his dark eyes up to the man, he didn?t let the smile on his face falter. Instead, he lifted a hand to fix a loose button on his dress shirt, even if it wasn?t visible through the flour-covered apron. ?Yes, sir.? The old man meant well, treated him like family on the days he could actually remember his name. So he was losing his mind, Russo didn?t mind so much.
?How old are you, boy?? he questioned, raising his chin up. His face was wrinkly, but not so much that it might strike the fear of getting old into the hearts of onlookers. The most off-putting thing about the old man was the wild hair he grew on his face?more so on his eyebrows and inside his nose.
?I?m nineteen, sir,? he said with that same smile spreading further across his features. It was a question he answered at least twice a week. Always with the same answer following from the old man. If he hadn?t respected him as much, he might?ve counted down beneath his breath. Instead, he went back to sweeping up the flour.
?Boy your age should be living on his own,? the old man said, right on time.
A chuckle fell from his lips, that boyish grin not leaving his face for a second. ?Yes, sir.? Answered Russo before he lifted the broom by the handle to indicate what he was doing. ?That?s certainly the plan, Mr. Cole,? he said with a smile, sweeping up the rest of the flour into the dust pan. There was silence then, a silence that August didn?t predict. It had him looking up on occasion to make sure he wasn?t going to fall over.
?Snow?s coming down thick out there,? said the old owner after two minutes masked by eternity. He began to mess around behind the counter.
?Yes, sir.?
?I reckon you should get home to your mother, ?for it gets too bad,? he watched the hesitation on August?s face?it was there every time he let him go early. ?Go on, boy. You?ll be paid the same,? he told him, waving him off.
August put the broom away and worked himself out of his apron. ?Thank you, Mr. Cole,? he said with a smile. Grabbing his coat, he began heading toward the door. ?Goodnight, Sir,? said Russo reaching for the handle.
?Oh, Austin?? asked the old man, and Russo turned around anyway. The man held up a box full of baked goods, mostly cookies and muffins. ?Take these home and enjoy ?em with your mother. I?ll see you t?morrow,? he said, handing off the bag and watching the young man out.
The broom bristles raked across the floor as August swept thoroughly each corner of the room. It was an old shop, something of a bakery, bred with an ice cream shop. Business was slow this time a year, at least on the ice cream front. He didn?t have to look up for more than a minute to see that his boss was staring at him from across the room, chewing on words with old teeth. ?You still living with your mother, boy?? a name that was more endearment than condescending, but it might?ve been easily mistaken as such by anyone that didn?t know him. Especially with that southern accent.
August laughed under his breath, because it was the second time he?d heard that question today. Raising his dark eyes up to the man, he didn?t let the smile on his face falter. Instead, he lifted a hand to fix a loose button on his dress shirt, even if it wasn?t visible through the flour-covered apron. ?Yes, sir.? The old man meant well, treated him like family on the days he could actually remember his name. So he was losing his mind, Russo didn?t mind so much.
?How old are you, boy?? he questioned, raising his chin up. His face was wrinkly, but not so much that it might strike the fear of getting old into the hearts of onlookers. The most off-putting thing about the old man was the wild hair he grew on his face?more so on his eyebrows and inside his nose.
?I?m nineteen, sir,? he said with that same smile spreading further across his features. It was a question he answered at least twice a week. Always with the same answer following from the old man. If he hadn?t respected him as much, he might?ve counted down beneath his breath. Instead, he went back to sweeping up the flour.
?Boy your age should be living on his own,? the old man said, right on time.
A chuckle fell from his lips, that boyish grin not leaving his face for a second. ?Yes, sir.? Answered Russo before he lifted the broom by the handle to indicate what he was doing. ?That?s certainly the plan, Mr. Cole,? he said with a smile, sweeping up the rest of the flour into the dust pan. There was silence then, a silence that August didn?t predict. It had him looking up on occasion to make sure he wasn?t going to fall over.
?Snow?s coming down thick out there,? said the old owner after two minutes masked by eternity. He began to mess around behind the counter.
?Yes, sir.?
?I reckon you should get home to your mother, ?for it gets too bad,? he watched the hesitation on August?s face?it was there every time he let him go early. ?Go on, boy. You?ll be paid the same,? he told him, waving him off.
August put the broom away and worked himself out of his apron. ?Thank you, Mr. Cole,? he said with a smile. Grabbing his coat, he began heading toward the door. ?Goodnight, Sir,? said Russo reaching for the handle.
?Oh, Austin?? asked the old man, and Russo turned around anyway. The man held up a box full of baked goods, mostly cookies and muffins. ?Take these home and enjoy ?em with your mother. I?ll see you t?morrow,? he said, handing off the bag and watching the young man out.