What That's From?

So I take the busted-up sandblaster back to Harbor Freight this morning. The waifish, tattooed girl behind the counter frightened me. Literally. She couldn't stop fidgeting. Her movements were over-exaggerated. Chaotic. She kept flicking her hair. She'd sniff and touch her nose. Her speech was stilted and rushed. She wouldn't look at me. She forgot what I was returning.After she paged the manager on the speaker system, "Ineedamanageronregistertwo," she slammed down the phone. The cannon-like thump of plastic on plastic echoing throughout the store. Unfortunately she missed the handle. And had to slam the phone down again. More thumping. She got it right on the THIRD try. The whole place filled with the crash of all three failures.

Waiting next to me, another shopper leaned over to whisper, "You know what that's from?"

"Oh yeah," I nodded. "I know."

She actually forgot to refund the price of the extra filters I bought (but didn't use) for my mask. I didn't care. I asked her not to worry about it and left with them.

She frightened me. Literally.