The sudden downpour can’t soak into the ground fast enough. Gale force winds shove water through the jamb. Puddles expand in the entryway. Doors are scheduled to open in twenty minutes and employees scramble to save the sinking club.
The owner rushes past you with a dirty mop. He mumbles to himself. You follow him to the puddle and tell him to give you the mop, you’ll do it. He yanks the wooden handle towards his chest. Snaps at you, says he’s got it. Then he whips the floor with the mop’s dirty head. A drop of brown water lands on your arm.
You hop to the side to get out of his way and accidentally land on some strands of his mop yarn. He tugs them out from under you and you almost fall. As you catch yourself, you start to dance. The way people danced in the eighties. He looks up at you and scowls.
This is the first time you’ve ever seen him do anything except walk around. Turns out he’s a pretty damn good mopper. You want to ask him if he was in the Navy. But you don’t. You just keep on dancing while he shows the puddle who’s boss.