Benny
A small, sprightly man in his mid-seventies with a round, kind face made for smiling — crinkled laughing eyes behind round wire-rimmed glasses, a neat snow-white moustache and bushy white eyebrows, soft white hair combed to the side, ears that stick out just enough to be endearing. He wears the Benny's staff apron: heavy natural canvas with adjustable leather neck strap, the Benny's Bananas mark screen-printed in forest green at chest height over a chambray work shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows, a pencil tucked behind one ear. His hands are weathered but gentle; he still tests ripeness with a practiced squeeze and slips free bananas to well-behaved dogs and children. Half a century behind this counter — the steady, twinkly presence that makes the neighborhood feel looked after.
