I’m standing in line at the gas station, with my half-gallon of caffeine and bubbles, and the guy in front of me gets his turn and shuffles up to the counter. He’s sort of gaunt and weathered and a wind-breaker hangs loosely on his shoulders. He puts something that looks like a small electric razor to his throat and turns it on. A sharp buzzing starts.

“Do you have cell phone minutes?” he whispers, the sound barely rising above the machine.

“No,” says the cashier, totally unshaken. “But you can get them at the 7-Eleven across the street.”

“Thanks,” buzzes the guy and switches off the razor. He turns and shuffles out, headed for the cross-walk. I buy my soda and as I turn to leave, the woman behind me comes up to the counter.

“Marlboro Lights,” she says. “Two packs.”