Whats on my mind? 11/10/14 - PAPER OR PLASTIC: The Grocery Store Chronicles – When Good Groceries Turn Bad I’m now a floater and scheduled for only one work day this week. Of course, that means I will probably be called at ten p.m. to come to work at eleven p.m. for someone someday during the week. I don’t know what a floater really is. There’s no job description, but this week I work grocery (stocking, blocking, changing those little tags on the shelf, and assorted other chores). Next week I work five days as the night cashier. Maybe following week I’ll be the night butcher. Sunday was brutal. The flu season had hit, and some people missed work. That meant everyone on Sunday had lots of work, including me. But before I could get out of the gate, a bottle of Glaceau Fruitwater Sparkling lemon-lime attacked me. I had been helping an elderly woman find the beverage. I handed it to her. She clunked the bottle against the side of the grocery cart and lost her grip. It exploded when it hit the floor like a powerful jet of fluid all over my left pants leg. She was very apologetic. I assured her that these things happen. Fortunately, we were right next to a paper towel display. “You really shouldn’t drink and drive, you know,” I said, setting up a ‘Wet Floor’ sign and dropping an armful of paper towels on the wet spot until such time that I could return with a mop. “And to think I was going to get wine.” She blushed and giggled. I rang up her order. She left her change, $.87. “Someone might need it.” I tried to give it back, but could tell it was her way to compensate me for my efforts. I put it under the register. She departed, and a “stuffer” approached. A stuffer stuffs more items into a hand basket or cart than is humanly possible. The reasons vary. This man always stuffs a hand basket, playing the mental game ‘I can’t buy more than what I can carry’ about once every other week. He is struggling with the basket. That should have been my first clue. I pulled out the little counter in front of the register to accept his load. He put it down with a grunt. That should have been a clue number two. I started my verbal routine and picked up the loaf of bread that lay on top of the mound of groceries in the basket closest to me. I could have chosen the bag of rice farthest away from me, but I didn’t. The ‘butterfly effect’ of the grocery world began. The butterfly effect is a common trope in fiction, especially stories with time travel. It illustrates how small initial differences may lead to large unforeseen consequences over time. Kind of like when Homer Simpson went back in time, killed on a butterfly, and couldn’t get back to his future, or the mediocre Ashton Kutcher movie. I lifted the loaf of bread to scan it. The unbalance load tipped-over onto the floor. Two hidden half-gallon glass jars of milk shattered—a biblical flood at register two. 11:33 p.m. Who jinxed my night? Two co-workers expedited the customer’s order, getting replacements for everything ruined. I contained the flood. My boss opened another register for the other customers. By 12:15, the mop up was completed, glass picked up, and floor washed. I pointed out the area to the night floor cleaning guy. “It needs extra cleaning.” “Si, si,” he said, “Tacky.” I took a breath and resumed my duties now forty-five minutes behind schedule. The next person had a bottle of Glaceau Fruitwater Sparkling lemon-lime. I laughed inwardly, but it too made a run for it, jumping down to the floor. My right pants leg now matched my left pants leg: soda, chocolate milk, and regular milk. At least my underpants were still dry. The clean-up process began again. Not much later, a bag of double stuffed Oreo cookies fell apart when I retrieved it from the top shelf in the cereal aisle. I suspect a booby trap from eight-year-old miscreants. Dusty crumbs and not broken cookies darkened me like ash from a coal pit, including my damp pants. (Paper towels in the bathroom not hot air blowers.) It was not yet two in the morning, but the world goes dead until 3:20 when the twins come in for nunch (night lunch). I went outside to walk off my frustration and retrieve carts. At the far end of the parking lot, that ‘little rain that must fall into everyone’s life’ began with a gusty whoosh. The 20% chance of scattered showers had targeted me exclusively. When I came in, my boss said, “You look like Hell.” “Yeah, but you should see the other guy.” I could tell from his expression that sometimes my humor is obscure to others. I’m okay with that. And sometimes you just have to work through life’s mishaps, hands that just don’t grip that well any longer, and suicidal beverage containers. I had had worse nights in the army. Light slowly filled the store. Sleepy-eyed shoppers came in for those onsy-twosy items for the breakfast table, office, or school. Some walked like slow-walker zombies; some were fast-walker zombies; some walked like the zombies were after them. Whatever the case, I always stepped up my game so that they could meet the world on their own terms. The relief cashier was late. I stayed at my post. A young woman came in. She is a semi-regular, pays mostly with change. She buys a banana, orange, or bagel, something small, and usually healthy. Her age is hard to determine—most likely early-to-mid-twenties. She’s a sprite who wears a green hoodie most of the time and her perfume or shampoo smells like a pine forest after a rain. Okay, a bit over the top, but it’s true. The hoodie goes well with her short brown hair and big brown doe eyes. She wears slacks, not jeans, and usually a white button-down shirt. I envision her in some office: an assistant, receptionist, doing some light bookkeeping. Her thin lips cast a nice smile. If she wears make-up, it’s barely there. She says little in her soft voice. “Morning.” “Thank you.” “Goodbye.” “Sorry,” as she counts out change with a fast-walker zombie behind her in line. You don’t get into long conversations in the morning with the zombies and people fleeing from zombies. Slash forty years off my age, and I’d ask her out. I find her fetching, intriguing, someone literally watching her pennies, and polite. A slow-walker was in front of her in line. He was struggling with his wallet. She had two bananas, probably about sixty cents. I could see her scanning the candy rack, her thin fingers run over the M&Ms. They were on sale this week. There was a desire for them, but probably not the money. I finished the slow-walker’s order. He left. “Morning,” she said. I started my customer routine. “Store card, please. Paper or plastic? Find everything you need?” Her eyes casted a quick glance back at the M&Ms. She handed me two bananas. “Sixty-two cents.” She handed me a two quarters, a dime, and a nickel. She smiled. She had enough money. I held up a finger. “One moment.” I walked over to the candy. “Plain or peanut?” “Plain,” she stuttered. I grabbed it. “No wait,” she said. I pulled out the money from the old lady. “Customer didn’t take her change last night. The candy is on her.” I slapped the bananas and candy into her hand, opened the register, and deposited the money inside. I ripped off the receipt and handed it to her. “It’ll be magical,” she said, floating out of elfin dust with a big smile on her face. I reached into my pocket and put in the additional thirteen cents. The relief cashier had arrived. What part of my miserable night caused the butterfly effect that made the relief cashier ten minutes late so I could use that money for someone who truly seemed appreciative of it? I don’t know, but even on nights when good groceries turn bad, good things can still happen.
Posted on: Tue, 11 Nov 2014 00:29:56 +0000
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