Good Business.The clocks on display in the shop were nothing but junk seeded on top of an even larger pile of junk. They all displayed seven o’clock. Every damn day those clocks held him hostage with a pace slower than cold molasses. As if to further mock him, they tortured him with their tedious ticking and methodical detachment. In this moment, however, they were giving him the best news of the day: it was closing time, which meant he was free. Seven o'clock at last. Time to close up, find a chair at Ben's to force down the slop of the day, complain to the first unfortunate passerby in sight how his business was crumbling, and finally, plop his tired bones on the rickety cot in his musty little room.
While Aaron Mansill was not a multi-millionaire by any means, he was certainly wealthy
