Eunice

He walks into the gas station corner store and grocery in Three Points, Virginia and looks around. There are pies in display case and the specials of the day are written on a chalk board behind the front counter. The man more than half-way expects some Faulknerian character to come in with a black fedora resting lazily on his head, matching blazer slung over his left shoulder, and his tie loosened. He would sit down and quietly place a dime on the counter, "piece o' pie, Eunice," he'd say to the ancient fry-cook in the back. Then he would uncomfortably lift up one buttock and dig in his pocket. He'd toss a nickel on the counter, "some coffee, too."
The man realizes he might be a similar character, come in from town, not speaking with quite the same lilt. But not now. Gone are the days of slapping down a coin for coffee...

He passes the pies in the display case and asks the young looking woman at the cash register what is good that day.
"'At all depends on whatchee want," she says in a tired drawl.
"Grilled Texas Chicken Sandwich, please."
"Y'ant anything on 'at sammich?"
"What comes on it?"
"Nothin."
He orders the sandwich and a sweet tea, which he gets immediately. The sweet tea has been sitting too long. As he drinks the woman at the cash register is frantically writing numbers on the back of a receipt. After a minute or so of scribbling she throws her pen down on the counter and swears under her breath. She grabs a new receipt and scribbles more. Her eyes grow large as if she has just solved some numerical mystery. She lets out a victorious squeal just in time for the woman cooking in the kitchen to throw the Grilled Texas Chicken Sandwich on the counter. The girl settles temporarily and delivers the sandwich. She almost throws it on the table where the man is sitting and returns to her newly victorious task. The sandwich isn't good. Chicken, bacon, and a slice of that fake yellow cheese. And toasted white bread. With belly some-what full, and appetite less than quelled, the man stands up from the booth. He waves a hand towards the front and thanks the ladies in the store. "Have a good'n," the scribbling woman says without looking up. The man walks outside, slings his blazer back on around his shoulders, squints in the sun and puts his matching fedora squarely on his head. As he walks he tightens his tie.

Back inside, the restaurant continues with the normal clatter and hum. The woman from the back yells at the cash register, "Clara, what'na hell you doin' out yonder?"
"Ain't none o' your concern, Eunice, leave me be."