| Author: |
Robert Ziegler |
| Dated: |
Sunday, October 01 2006 @ 08:30 AM EDT |
| Viewed: |
1572 times |
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A Shopping Tale
Knobbly gourds, ornamental red corn, and miniature pumpkins are displayed in autumnal pyramids to catch shopper’s eyes as we walk through the electronic doors of the Save On Foods store. Frozen butter-ball turkeys and pumpkin pies on sale, 2 for the price of one, are being harvested from shelves and bins, loaded into heaped-high carts and hustled down the bustling isles. Two days left until Thanksgiving, and I don’t want to be here.
Looping lines of last-minute shoppers like me wait impatiently in the late afternoon while a dozen underpaid cashiers heft icy turkeys, bags of spuds, and the thousand and first can of cranberry sauce since their shift started this morning. They scan bar codes in tired unison, say nice things to irritable housewives with hyper-kids, and swallow forkfuls of humble pie.
Our family is leaving tomorrow to spend the holiday with relatives up north. I have volunteered to parachute into the madness, score the last few goodies we are contributing to the feast, and arrive home, unruffled: mission accomplished.
Long lines are not my strong suit. Banks and food stores, and redneck pick-up truck yahoos have consistently up-ended my meditation cushion, despite my practice of deep-breathing techniques, compassionate understanding, and supposed maturity. When a mud-splattered four by four roars up and hovers inches from my back bumper, or floors the gas to run the red light seconds before I’m starting forward, I mutter clumsy curses similar to those my father did, and Lemont and Larue crinkle up with silent mirth just like my brother and I did, over the apparently invisible infractions. In stores, my wife Chenille presses her hand on mine, widens her eyes at my apparently audible grumblings, and reminds me gently of my meditation goals, as the old man or woman at the cash register counts in slow motion, penny by penny, digs through the tangle of tissues and mints, keys and coupons, all the while discussing the benefits of this can of cat food rather than that, and the noble cashier smiles and shares her preferences for yet another brand of meow-bits.
Today I am alone, feeling lucky like a bettor at a race track with an inside tip on not just the right horse, but the right starting gate. High expectations, low odds. I eye the wickets, expertly assess the approximate number of items in the heavily laden silver carts, then, with a cursory but practiced glance, estimate the items in my own cart, which will hopefully qualify me for one of the 15 Items or Less Express Lanes. Actually, I have exactly 15 items, if I can count the three yams as one item (since they are, technically, the same item times three), similar to one dozen eggs which are, in reality, twelve separate items contained in one carton. Unfortunately, in my hurry, I have neglected to bag the yams, which now roll around independently in the bottom of my jockeying cart.
The Express Lanes are flowing smoothly as little mountain streams, and unruffled shoppers float like sacred ducks through the tributaries; this one sports a potted zinnia, that one balances a single pie. They have tiny smiles as they anticipate floating their minimal purchases through the open aisles and out the doors without obstruction. I briefly wonder if they are some of the same people who run the yellow lights and never get caught, but today I acknowledge those with little baskets to have the right of way.
Three short lines, parallel to each other, are my obvious possibilities: in each, one person stands before the cashier, items already in the process of being rung-up; then, one additional customer next, their items already laid out on the moving counter just behind the triangular plastic bar-divider that separates their items. Then there will be me, next. No appreciable difference among the three, just like any three scratch and win tickets: you take your chance.
While I wait I look at Brad Pitt’s handsome face. He regrets leaving his recent bride for a hotter flame. He is talking on a cell phone, imploring an adjacent photo of his wounded bride who is standing at a tennis court weeping into a cell phone. There is a $200 million divorce suit at stake and they’re both terribly sorry. To their left, Oprah smiles like a queen with a mouthful of pearls. She is promising to share her latest secrets for losing weight once and for all, and any woman who reads her story will have everything she does very soon. President Bush has been drinking hard again and having fights with his wife (fact), and the ghost of Saddam Hussein has been recently seen in the Vatican. A woman with perfect buns on one magazine smiles alluringly to a man with six-pack abs on the lower shelf. The line I am in has not moved one inch.
Something is wrong at the till. A red faced young woman, a girl, actually, adjusts her glasses repeatedly, focusing and refocusing on items that appear to be written in a foreign language. She seems compelled to turn the objects at varying angles, attempting, perhaps, to pin down elusive information that appears to be darting from one side of the item to the other. Eventually, having ascertained that the package of dates is indeed what it appears to be, she lifts a tentative finger and presses the key of the electronic cash register, then watches with fascination as a number appears on the screen. Satisfied that she has done all she can be expected to with the package of dates, she lifts an exotic can of applesauce up to the light, and proceeds to examine it with loving care.
If I were in her flat shoes, I might be moving with the same trepidation, for the owner of the cart and the as yet unregistered items, is a hefty woman of Scandinavian or Germanic origins. No socks for her, though the weather is cold and damp, and her aging Birkenstock sandals strain to contain her massive feet. A slender boy fidgets with the bars of the unmoving cart, running his tapered fingertips back and forth, making little drumming sounds. She silences him with a glare, then zeroes in on the crumpling cashier.
The shopper in front of me glances dejectedly from beneath her weathered cowboy hat, gives her gray curls a shake, studies her short nails. The counter beneath her neatly arranged groceries is as still as a dried-up watering hole. She lifts her tired eyes to stare at Paris Hilton’s barely covered breasts. Paris has her slender wrists bound with Bulova watches, and her low-slung white jockey britches reveal a diamond in her navel. That riding crop would do Daddy’s Girl no good if she crossed paths out on the real range with granny; she’d wipe that seductive smile off her . . . the counter suddenly jumps forward several inches then stops again.
Our vanquished cashier is now taking items back OUT of the bag of the Norwegian giantess! She is re-checking the shrimp-ring in a redeemable-points coupon book that her captor holds inches from her face. The giantess yawns, brushes something invisible from her down-vest, and directs the cashier to review the curling scroll of items on her receipt. Clearly, this movie is going backwards. The coupon queen has brought the entire line to a stand-still.As she surveys the hostages in her domain, she grows larger, and our helpless cashier-in-training shrinks like a character in a cartoon.
The cowboy hat swings slowly in my direction and shakes disappointedly from left to right. Granny’s spectacled blue eyes find mine and we acknowledge the small tyranny taking place, conspire together in our helplessness, but I cannot make the commitment to join her as a hostage; Lemont’s haircut will soon be finished. An escape hole has opened in the adjacent line . . . my cart swivels on a dime and I am gone. My items are already moving onto the counter and the counter is already in motion.
My cashier knows what she is doing. Bag of carrots, onto the scale, bar code, punch; whipped cream, no scale, punch code. She has a rhythm like a boxer with a speed bag: slide, lift, punch, smile.
“Any cash, sir?”
"No thank you."
"Have a nice Thanksgiving!"
"You too."
Bags in hand, I notice that the cowboy hat has not yet moved. Her hands are braced on the unmoving counter, head down, like a prisoner at a strip search in a prison. A woman with pure white hair pulled into a long pony-tail is scooting into my vacant spot, next to poor Grannie. Her partner has copper colored skin and black lamb chop sideburns like Elvis did. They are both grinning because they’ve found the shortest line, and can hardly believe their good fortune.
The vanquished cashier shuffles towards the tobacco counter thirty-five feet from her till. She is being sent on a mission now. Grannie’s cowboy hat tilts upwards, allowing her to covertly contact the new arrivals. She gestures with her chin towards the source of congestion who stands like a tower with an impatient warden inside. Pony-tail stops smiling and Lambchops glances about for a hole in the wall. There is no escape; they can see for themselves just by looking at the ball-and-chain shuffle that the snail-pace cashier is laying down in her last-mile back to the Boss. Her hands are empty and she attempts to lift her shoulders in a shrug but to no avail; another brand will just have to be retrieved. I cannot bear to watch any more of this modern tragicomedy.
Inwardly I’m smiling, not smugly but with a sense of something like accomplishment. My assessment skills have clearly improved. So, despite the fact that I’m still struggling with acquiring the patience of a shopping-cart saint, I’m successfully adjusting by analyzing cashier competency, item approximation, sudden openings. I am making more efficient choices in high-stress/luck of the draw situations, even under pressure of deadline. I lift my yams in one bag and my pie and snacks in the other. On my way through the electronic door, I smile reassuringly to the cashier carrying the carton of Cameos to Medusa, imagining I can hear a shallow collective sigh of relief from the hostages who are soon to be released.
It has begun to rain. While my windshield is clearing, I pull the white tongue of itemized groceries from the plastic bag and scan the receipt. Fifty-two dollars and thirty six cents! That seems mighty high to me. Check the list. What the hell is this! $8.77 for three yams! Yams were on sale, 48 cents a pound. What are they? Five pounds total?
My cashier looks as fresh and speedy as before. I wait impatiently, knowing better than to interrupt her in the middle of a transaction, but find myself doing it anyway. This is my second time here in one day. She smiles sweetly and directs me to the Customer Services counter on the far side of the Express Lanes, where a small queue has formed. A slight, ageless man carefully arranges and rearranges thin strands of colorless hair across his pear shaped skull. From his apron hangs a name-tag: Rodney. When it’s my turn, watery blue eyes sympathize with my problem.
“And three yams at $8.77 comes to almost three bucks for each potato!”
“Yes sir, mmhmm. Let’s go see what they’re selling for.”
“I told you: 48 cents a pound.”
Rodney leads the way, stopping conclusively at an orange Thanksgiving Special sign that sticks out of the yam bin.
“You’re right, sir” proclaims Rodney, stooping slightly to adjust an errant yam.
“Where are your yams, sir? We’ll have to weigh them, won’t we? There are no scales here sir; I’m sorry. We’ll just have to wait until a cashier can help us.”
“Listen Rodney. I’ll tell you what. You just keep the yams. This is total crap. Just give me my money back and I’ll. . .” I take a deep breath and continue,"I don’t mean to bring any anger down on you Rodney; you’re doing your best, and so are the cashiers, but I didn’t ring in the wrong bar code. Just give me my money back. . .”
But Rodney has silently melted into another scene, is already standing next to the nearest cashier, and proffering the yams like they are Jason’s Golden Fleece. The customers, the cashier, and I are standing in a photograph, faces frozen in attitudes of annoyance, surprise, and amusement as Blindfolded Justice lays the yams onto her scales, scans the code, and together we blink as $127.77 appears on the silver screen.
Rodney turns, smiles triumphantly, brings me my yams and counts the six dollars and forty cents into my hand. Rodney reappears behind the customer services counter, patting his several strands of hair back into place: another skirmish, done.
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