Marcus smacks gum while he runs customers through his lane.

“I didn't pay for this gum,” he says. “I took it right off that rack behind you.”

Marcus doesn't ask if they want paper or plastic; he lets them bag their groceries themselves.

“Don't ask me to help you carry those out,” he says to an old man buying jugs of water. “Because I won't.”

A young woman comes through his line and Marcus runs her fruit basket through the scanner.

“I'm a poet working the night shift. What do you think this does to me?”

During his break he wanders through the store's aisles. A customer asks him where to find laundry detergent.

“I don't work here,” Marcus replies, his hand buried in a bag of stolen pretzels.

Marcus peers at a freezer case, sees his reflection distorted by rows of ice cream and pizza.

“There you are, Marcus,” he says out loud. “I'm right here.”