Dustin stood finally, more to stretch, and because the concrete wasn't comfortable on his rear than because he thought he should, really. He'd said hello because it was more or less polite. He'd expected the guy to mutter it back and then go on his way, wherever he was headed. He didn't look that much older than Dustin. Maybe he was looking for a job. If he was, he was out of luck - they weren't hiring as far as Dustin knew. Plus he'd have to pry all the metal out of his face and dye his hair back to the kind of color that was seen in nature. (Which Dustin kind of thought was unfair anyway, since at least two of the girls who worked there were dyed the kind of blond that couldn't come anywhere BUT from a bottle, and didn't match their eyebrows.)
But he wasn't leaving. Dustin wasn't exactly skilled with small talk. And couldn't think of anything to ask other than so don't needles through your face HURT?, which he had the sense not to ask. For the moment anyway. "I think that Mexican place down the road is hiring, if you were looking. They're not here." If he was a customer, he'd be at the front, or the side entrance, Dustin figured. And if he was passing by he'd. . . pass by. Not stand there. Dustin couldn't think of any other reason to hang around. Other than to mug him, which he wasn't worried about.