Sunday Best in Aisle Three
One day, while on an overnight layover in San Francisco en route to Osaka, I stepped into a market not far from the hotel. Standing in the checkout line, I happened to overhear an elderly yet graceful gentleman who, for whatever reason, was sharing his résumé with the lady behind the counter. The thirty-something-year-old woman seemed genuinely interested in what he had to say—or at least pretended to be. "I used to be the Executive Vice President of XYZ company, had a zillion people working for me and my name is engraved here and engraved there blah blah blah," went the stately old man matter-of-factly. Shoot. Even I was impressed. Yet there he was, standing in the middle of the supermarket, draped in his Sunday best, trying to convince the lady at the register he was somebody important. I guess what he really wanted was for her to SNAP TO ATTENTION and SALUTE whenever his majesty graced the premises. I also got the distinct impression that, somewhere along the way, he had l...