On Mimicry
There's a low-rent storefront I usually pass on my evening commute that has a sign saying "Sorry, We're Closed."
I notice it, because it's very unusual for shops here to post their hours, which -- maybe I've been away too long -- does sort of make sense to me: If it's open, there's someone there; if it's closed, the metal grating splattered with red betel juice spit is pulled down. I mean, duh.
The posher shops do sometimes strike a Western pose, listing their hours (which may or may not correlate with the shop's actual opening times) matter-of-factly in a discreet little chart. They'd be most likely to go the way of the Anglo-American bright yellow cheery "Sorry, We're Closed" dealies and yet they opt out, so it's a particularly surprising thing to see splashed across a mom-and-pop.
The other day, I was dashing across town for a meeting and happened to pass that same shop when it wasn't closed.
The other side of its sign?
You got it.
"Sorry, We're Open."
I notice it, because it's very unusual for shops here to post their hours, which -- maybe I've been away too long -- does sort of make sense to me: If it's open, there's someone there; if it's closed, the metal grating splattered with red betel juice spit is pulled down. I mean, duh.
The posher shops do sometimes strike a Western pose, listing their hours (which may or may not correlate with the shop's actual opening times) matter-of-factly in a discreet little chart. They'd be most likely to go the way of the Anglo-American bright yellow cheery "Sorry, We're Closed" dealies and yet they opt out, so it's a particularly surprising thing to see splashed across a mom-and-pop.
The other day, I was dashing across town for a meeting and happened to pass that same shop when it wasn't closed.
The other side of its sign?
You got it.
"Sorry, We're Open."
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