BALLARD ENTERED THE store and slammed the iron barred door behind him. The store was empty save for Mr Fox who nodded to this small and harried looking customer. The customer did not nod back. He went along the shelves picking and choosing among the goods, the cans all marshaled with their labels to the front, wrenching holes in their ordered rows and stacking them on the counter in front of the storekeeper. Finally he fetched up in front of the meatcase. Mr Fox rose and donned a white apron, old bloodstains bleached light pink, tied it in the back and approached the meatcase and switched on a light that illuminated rolls of baloney and rounds of cheese and a tray of thin sliced pork chops among the sausages and sousemeat.

Slice me about a half pound of that there baloney, said Ballard.

Mr Fox fetched it out and laid it on the butcher block and took up a knife and began to pare away thin slices. These he doled up one at a time onto a piece of butcherpaper. When he had done he laid down the knife and placed the paper in the scales. He and Ballard watched the needle swing. What else now, said the storekeeper, tying up the package of meat with a string.

Give me some of that there cheese.

He bought a sack of cigarette tobacco and stood there rolling a smoke and nodding at the groceries. Add them up, he said.

The storekeeper figured the merchandise on his scratchpad, sliding the goods from one side of the counter to the other as he went. He raised up and pushed his glasses back with his thumb.

Five dollars and ten cents, he said.

Just put it on the stob for me.

Ballard, when are you goin to pay me?

Well. I can give ye some on it today.

How much on it.

Well. Say three dollars.

The storekeeper was figuring on his pad.

How much do I owe altogether? said Ballard.

Thirty-four dollars and nineteen cents.

Includin this here?

Includin this here.

Well let me just give ye the four dollars and nineteen cents and that’ll leave it thirty even.

The storekeeper looked at Ballard. Ballard, he said, how old are you?

Twenty-seven if it’s any of your business.

Twenty-seven. And in twenty-seven years you’ve managed to accumulate four dollars and nineteen cents?

The storekeeper was figuring on his pad.

Ballard waited. What are you figurin? he asked suspiciously.

Just a minute, said the storekeeper. After a while he raised the pad up and squinted at it. Well, he said. Accordin to my figures, at this rate it’s goin to take a hundred and ninety-four years to pay out the thirty dollars. Ballard, I’m sixty-seven now.

Why that’s crazy.

Of course this is figured if you don’t buy nothin else.

Why that’s crazier’n hell.

Well, I could of made a mistake in the figures. Did you want to check em?

Ballard pushed at the scratchpad the storekeeper was offering him. I don’t want to see that, he said.

Well, what I think I’m goin to do along in here is just try to minimize my losses. So if you’ve got four dollars and nineteen cents why don’t you just get four dollars and nineteen cents’ worth of groceries.

Ballard’s face was twitching.

What did you want to put back? said the storekeeper.

I ain’t puttin a goddamn thing back, said Ballard, laying out the five dollars and slapping down the dime.