The third button of my uniform had just oozed blood when the knock of the refrigerator shattered the tail end of pi. In 1988, coins were burned into the palm of my hand and there were scorch marks. In the mirror, I was smiling "ding dong" at shelf No. 7. When the automatic door opened and closed for the seventh time, my father in a white coat came up holding red merchandise. The word "clerk" on the badge was squirming with his steps. It was time for his son to make up for the new rules.
