Bit of something

This may materialize into a bigger work. The wheels in my head are turning. The concept won't leave me alone.

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"It was a joke, Miguel," Rory sighed as she watched her more somber coworker arrange auto parts on a shelf while she wondered for the umpteenth time if the communication problem had to do with cultural differences or if the man simply could not stand her.
Miguel continued to arrange air filters before finally turning a brief, inscrutable gaze upon Rory.
"I'm sorry," he replied,his English thickly accented but impeccable, "I guess I'm slow today." He turned toward a small box of air fresheners and sliced into it with the precision of a surgeon.
"No, of course not," she protested, not even thinking that he may have been indulging in a bit of self-effacing humor. "It's just that I think in, and express myself in, almost completely abstract terms. You, on the other hand,operate in concrete terms because you're one of the most practical people I've ever met." While she was blathering on in this vein, he hung the air fresheners and would occasionally flick another inscrutable gaze toward her. "You seem to be of a literal turn of mind, and everything is to be taken at face value." Rory was proud of her intelligent, well-worded discourse and was dead certain she had made some kind of breakthrough in establishing friendlier relations with her coworker, or at least understanding him somewhat better. She smiled serenely and awaited Miguel's response.
"What can I say? Of course I'm practical. It's because I'm a Mexican," he retorted as he carried off a hefty pile of cardboard boxes for the baler. A flummoxed Rory grabbed the rest of the boxes and followed him into the baler room.
"Miguel," Rory huffed as they sliced and tossed cardboard into the enormous machine, "I hardly think this is a matter of cultural predisposition-" Before she could ask him if all Mexicans were sensible, practical, and had broomsticks up their asses, Mitch breezed in wheeling a flat full of various broken or damaged merchandise.
"Nah. His matter of cultural predisposition is a mad love mariachi music. Right, Pepe?"
Miguel continued working, ignoring both remark and maker. Meanwhile, Rory, rolling her eyes in mild irritation, wheeled around to face Mitch.
"Wow, Mitchell, way to C yourself into an A/B conversation," she snarled.
"Anything I can do to help,"Mitch replied. Any attempt at further conversation was stopped for the moment by the horrifically loud noise of the baler. Rory busied herself with the rest of the boxes that needed to be broken down as Mitch sorted and shelved the damages.
"I'm not really a fan of mariachi music," Miguel mumbled as the baler whined to a stop. He opened doors of the enormous machine and began shoving in the last of the boxes.
"So, what do you listen to, then? Classical? Jazz? Rock?" asked Rory in a polite, conversational tone.
Mitch, seeing an opportunity for mayhem, took it up immediately. "Ooooh, our boy likes Metallica and Swedish death metal, I bet. Please, Iggy, tell me you're not into those whiny, sissy emo bands."
Rory had to work very, very hard to contain her amusement. Mitch was a jackass- she always described him as Gregory House's loser pothead cousin- but his wit was sharp and as long as she wasn't on the receiving end he was really quite amusing.
"Actually, I've been listening to a lot of Led Zeppelin lately," Miguel retorted as he finished with the baler, retrieved a broom from the corner, and began to sweep.
Mitch beamed his approval.
"Iggy! Dude! Led Zep! That's awesome! You know they're the best band on the planet ever of all time." They grinned at each other while Rory stared at them, then glared at Mitch as he was obviously trying to start up with her again.
Miguel noticed. "Hey, Shoe Girl, you don't like Zeppelin?"
"I like them fine. However, the Who are the best rock band in the Universe, at least in my opinion, and Mitch knows it."
Mitch snorted, "Oh, please, Rory. The Who were all fine and good, but Led Zep rocked harder and badder and the whole world knows it. Unless, of course, you're special- as in 'short-bus special."
Rory crossed her arms and rolled her eyes. "I'm not saying Zeppelin didn't rock hard. I love them. I've spent hours rocking out to "Mothership" like any good rock aficionado. However, the Who crossed into artistic territory that Led Zep just did not."
Mitch snorted derisively. "Oh, yeah, Pete Townshend's gay little rock operas and concept albums and crap. Please. Rock isn't about art projects, kiddo; it's about pedal-to-the-metal noise and anger and sweat and sex and drugs. It's visceral, not that conceptual bullshit."
Incensed, Rory balled her hands into fists and cocked them on her hips. "Yeah, well, the Who had Keith Moon, you dillhole!"
Miguel looked at his watch and glared at them both. "I hate to interrupt such a fascinating exchange, but don't the two of you have actual work to do? Look, Mitch, you're right, Led Zeppelin is the best band in the world. Now, back to sporting goods with you, okay?" Mitch saluted and breezed out of the stock room.
"And you," Miguel turned to Rory, "don't you need to be playing with the shoes?" Rory's face reddened as she pocketed her box-knife. Making her way to the stockroom door, she wondered what she'd done to earn Miguel's scorn.
"Hey."
Her hand was on the door when Miguel said this. She cocked her head over her shoulder to indicate that she heard him.
"Keith Moon was the best drummer of his generation," he said, finishing the sweeping.
Once again, he'd thrown another curveball. Unable to respond, she left the stockroom to finish up in her department.