text: He comes in asking for coat hangers. “Not the plastic kind. The metal ones,” he says, making a gesture like he is unbending and rebending the curved part of an imaginary coat hanger in his hands. The part that makes a hanger, a hanger. He’s tall and big. I’d say about six foot, two-forty, with a noticeable belly. He’s wearing a black hoodie - hood up - with red basketball shorts that went to his knees, and black skater shoes. Not a single thing he was wearing was clean, or without any rips or tears. His voice is deep and loud. Not the kind of deep you’re thinking of: low pitched, bassy. No, his voice was deep, like it came from the dark and lonely allies in the otherwise thriving city at the bottom of his stomach. It carries from his diaphragm, through his chest, out his mouth, and all the way to the back of the dollar store. The way you’d talk if there was an urgent problem, but you knew exactly how to solve it. Now let me tell you something about his chest. It’s infected. Badly. I know this because, before the kid in the green apron could point him to aisle three, he let out a loud, heaving cough. Like it was accompanied with a yell. Like a man being vocally overdramatic about an orgasm. But it explains the deep, congested voice, the air of each word being forced through a defense of dark green mucus that has been mobilizing for days, perhaps weeks. It also explains the snorts. You’ve heard people with the sniffles, right? They have a runny nose, they sniff, and it sends that falling bit of snot right back up their nasal cavity, into their throat, down their esophagus and into their stomach. On one hand, you empathize; having a runny nose is worse than you simply having to endure the sound of the sniffles. On the other hand, you fantasize about shoving a Kleenex - you don’t even know where you got it - right in their annoying face. Not this guy. These snorts were satanic. I didn’t even realize the full extent of their ugliness until he’s right there behind me in line. I have my headphones on - three-quarter volume - but his deep, glutaral snort easily surpassed the soft, orchestral drums of *Rocket Builder.* A cough-yell, and I’m focusing on keeping my eyes straight ahead. A snort, and I’m trying not to look bothered. Buddy in front of me, Jewish looking guy with glasses, takes a step forward and turns his head. Unsuccessful conspicuousness proved that he’s taking in every inch of this guy. Pretending not to stare, but obviously doing so. I take another step forward myself, keeping my eyes forward. But now I do something strange. I take my headphones off my head and droop them around my neck. I wonder why I did that? I wonder if anyone else wonders why I did that. I wonder, why the coat hangers, why metal specifically? The unbending gesture... Chest Infection takes another step, as lines go. Now, he is a little closer. A cough-yell, and now I glance back for a millisecond, hoping to see any evidence of an attempt to suppress the spread of whatever he was suffering from. My sigh of relief. “Fuck me, excuse me” he remarks. I thought about who might’ve followed that advice, in that order. He snorts, and this time, I listen. I really listen, thinking, what is this sound? I mean, I know it’s just a snort, but it’s not any regular snort. This is much more like something else, but I just can’t place it. I’m pondering and I’m interrupted by another cough-yell, just as loud as the other ones, except this time, a small, dark sticky green chunk of infected mucus splattered onto a small Doritos bag beside me. For some reason, I feel like I can smell it. My reaction is to step forward, which prompted Chest Infection to follow my cue. Problem was, Jewish glasses guy front of me never moved forward, so now all three of us are crammed together. Another snort, and I realize: it’s a pig. He snorts deep, like someone is hitting a small bass drum in his chest, but inhumanly fast, each beat as loud and tonal as the last. There was no fluctuation in pitch, no evidence of liquid. Just pure mucus, which lead me to believe he really needed one of the three bottles of water he had bundled in his left hand. In his right hand, a small basket barely hanging from his pale fingers. Inside were a single pack of about twenty-five metal coat hangers, white dish cloths, and rubbing alcohol. A cough-yell and I brace myself, this time visually as well as mentally. A swinish snort. An oink. The woman in front of Jewish-Glasses is now called to the counter, allowing Jewish-Glasses to make a temperate escape from the barrage of obstructive pulmonary disease that was raining down on us. Luckily the woman, pregnant girl in her late twenties, is two whole immune systems away from Chest Infection during the duration of her stay at the dollar store cash line. The small, pregnant girl steps up to the counter, where she fumbles her future purchases - three king sized Snickers bars, prepackaged bundles of forks, spoons and knives, and a - A cough-yell. Followed inevitably by a disease-fueled oink that belongs nowhere but barnyards and hospitals. Jewish-Glasses takes the pregnant girl’s former spot in line, Chest Infection closing the gap between him and myself with haste. In the midst of her fumbling, the tiny pregnant girl drops one of her Snickers bars on the poorly mopped floor. She makes a quick attempt to pick it up, but her soon-to-be baby was not having any of it. She teeters from heel to toe, in hopes the momentum from the forward lean would give her the push she needed to stretch all the way to the floor, but her belly is preventing her from bending over. Jewish-Glasses, being the nice guy I’m sure he is, runs over and picks it up, placing it gently on the counter. “Thanks,” she said, a smile on her face revealing a traintrack of braces tacked to the top row of her teeth. She is now holding her belly the way pregnant women do, the way that you can immediately tell they’re pregnant, even if they’re not showing. “No problem. We won’t let that baby win this battle,” Jewish-Glasses replies. “No, but it certainly won this one,” she says, holding up the three Snickers bars. “Have a good night.” “Yourself as we- “ A cough-yell. Right in my fucking ear. I didn’t realize how close he was, and now I can feel his breath through my flannel jacket. “Damnit,” blurts out Chest Infection, sounding agitated. Becoming increasingly obvious how disgusting he is. By now, the cashier is finished scanning the pregnant girl’s things. She pays, smiles again at Jewish-Glasses, and slowly makes her way out of the store. Jewish-Glasses takes her spot, and I am called to another register. My things - three light bulbs, a pack of dish sponges and dish soap - were quickly scanned, and I practically follow the pregnant girl out. I took one last look at her as she wandered into the busy street, bag in one hand, half-eaten Snickers bar in the other. I can’t stop thinking about those coat hangers.