Have a good day

I'm a little more intensely focused on the line game than most people. I look at two people, each with a shopping cart full of clothing, or whatever, each in different lines, and I can tell you down to the minute how long each one should take, given the standard cashier, standard method of payment, no calling for price, no special discussion about the cashier's autistic child or the customer needing an explanation for why a $2 flashlight isn't as good as a $3 flashlight. There isn't that much variation in cashiers, really, outside of the one over in aisle one who went on and on about the rash of robberies in town the other day, but on this day, as usual, I had only twenty-one minutes to get checked out and get back to the office, and it's a seven minute drive and a six minute park-and-walk. One minute late, and I'm docked a half-hour's pay, so it's important to me. The five minutes I have to stand there twiddling my thumbs and reading the Star Tabloid is, generally, a maximum figure, unless I get there early, which I didn't on this particular Tuesday. I eyed the people in front of me carefully, and decided whether to bolt for another line, because if I had to, the earlier the better. The high-pitched beeping of the cash registers set the tone; I wanted out of there, and fast.

Sometimes they fool me and something that looked pretty simple turns out to be complex. On this Tuesday an overweight woman, dirty sweater, mussed up hair, with about a half a cart, mostly food, was coming toward the cashier, and I was behind her; it would have been impolite to take my birthday cake and candles around her and get there first. But a shadowy man jumped in ahead of her, and she let him go, since he only had a single thing, maybe batteries. He was wearing a hat and overcoat, so I couldn't see his face, but it didn't seem like that would be more than thirty seconds. I put her cart at about four and a half, but knew I could be wrong and looked over at the next aisle.

In that aisle was an angular, athletic man with a Dartmouth sweater and a cart maybe a quarter full, but I couldn't see what was in it. People were heading toward his aisle, though; I'd have to move fast to get behind him. Too late. Someone was already there. They would line up behind me next, I knew. Opportunity lost. The Star beckoned. Dirty sweater's cell phone rang and she snapped it open and turned away toward the racks, all in one sweep of the hair, so that I couldn't see what she was saying or doing. She was mad at the caller; he needed directions and she was telling him. No, left on Oak, right on Adams, no I saw him here five minutes ago, I'm sure of it. No, RIGHT on Adams.. The man ahead of her cast a glance back and I could see his eyebrow raised. What had she said? Maybe it was her tone. She was trying to keep it down even though it was a small town and everybody knew just about everything. She was clearly mad at whoever she spat mumbling sounds at. I could practically say, oh yeah, over there by the water station, I know where that is. There were some nice houses over there, like Doris Grutter's- I'd just seen her a minute ago.

The man ahead of her, hat and overcoat, and was finishing his transactions as I was thumbing through the Star tracking down Brad and Angelina's most recent adoption scandal, or was it their divorce, or someone's divorce, you can never find what you want but you keep thumbing anyway, to make the cashier go faster and try to get rid of you. But as this guy with the hat was counting out change, maybe he didn't have enough, because he reached back in his pocket and came out with a card, which now the poor cashier had to run through the machine. I'm at four minutes and counting, nowhere to go, people in line behind me now, stuck for whatever his reason. I was fuming, thumbing harder at the Star, pretending to read something but counting, in my head, as we went down past four minutes.

Dirty sweater woman was an interesting show, in spite of my rage, my anger at the whole credit-card swiping transaction ahead of her. Her problem was, she was trying to put her food onto the conveyor with one hand, and talk into the cell with the other. And, she seemed to want to hide the essence of her cell conversation from both overcoat and me, unsuccessfully. She would spit oaths and directions at the poor guy on the other end, and when it appeared as if either of us were looking, she would bend forward, toward the gum, to hide the conversation. Actually I didn't care about the conversation. If she still was on that cell when it came to her turn at the cashier, now that would make me mad, but the cashier could do most of it without her- it would barely cost ten seconds. I would be mad more for the rudeness of it. Here I was, seventeen minutes away from being docked, every minute counted. But people start yapping to the wrong person, that really galls me. Eyes forward, do your business, get out of here.

The people at the next aisle didn't have any trouble with that concept. Dartmouth sweater was long gone, have a good day, a large lady with a full shopping cart was being waited on, and the two people behind her were inching steadily forward as she got herself and her cart moved forward to make room. They all seemed to have that ethic of progress, get out of there, don't tarry, don't even talk about the weather. These cashiers, they get a glaze in their voices and their eyes, but they don't slow down, unless you slow them down; they're trained pretty well. I've got no quarrel with them, as I've said; mine was ok, as was the one next to her; it's not that I picked the wrong one. It's the customers you've got to keep your eyes on, the customers that can turn a five-minute wait into seven slow minutes of hell.

Dirty sweater woman was now being checked out. Overcoat man got his stupid batteries and credit card back, have a good day, and backed out toward the entryway, pulling out and using his own cell-phone. Now it was entirely dirty sweater's show. If it was thirty seconds or so over three and a half minutes, I could probably still make it, out to the car, through the one big light out on Wall, and to the office under the clock. It was her game. She was impatient, and her hand was shaking as put her cell phone away; she had to, in order to get the last thing, a box of diapers, up out of the cart and onto the conveyor. She was minimally polite to the cashier, but she glanced around quickly, at overcoat man, at the greeter in the corner, at Doris Grutter, who was coming around an aisle with a cart full of nice clothes. The cashier was making progress with her food. I was a little behind, not too much. I practically pulled her wallet out of her purse for her myself, I was so eager for her to get going, get it over with, get something in the cashier's hand, have a good day. She did reach for her purse; she pulled it out; she gave the cashier a debit card. All was as it should be. But her hands were shaking.

It was an unusual case of nerves, for just buying diapers, food supplies, a gallon of milk. Her eyes still darted around; overcoat was gone; the greeter went on with his mindless task of saying hello, and pushing shopping carts around. It seemed like a normal day to me; dirty sweater woman was actually going faster than usual, and I was making up the time I'd lost with overcoat-man. She could have all the nerves she wanted, as long as she got her debit card numbers punched in, got her card put away and got out of there, which she did. I was next. My cake and candles were going through, when I got set back, big time, by a price check. The candles, for whatever reason, weren't ringing through properly, and the cashier had to call for help, which arrived soon enough; they were $2.74, which was then added on to the bell. This particular call-and-wait cost me maybe forty-five seconds; I was now about thirty seconds late, and would have to hustle out the door. Dirty sweater woman was glancing back and hurrying out the door herself; I was back in line just finishing up, typing my own debit numbers into the machine, pushing for my have a good day. In line, various people waited behind me, with various shopping carts full of merchandise. The high-pitched beeping of various cash registers was relentless.

Late, I rushed out to my car, without saying goodbye to the cashier or the greeter, glancing back only once, to see Doris Grutter, I remember, and several other people I knew, waiting impatiently in line. I make it sound like forever, but really, it wasn't that bad; I'd gotten through in slightly over my five minutes, which was pretty good, all things considered. I just had to run a little out to the car, and hope the light at Wall was going my way. In fact, the car started right up; the light at Wall was green; things were going well. Down one side street, though, it was Adams, I'm sure of it, way down past the water station, I could see police cars with their lights flashing. I found out later, they'd caught a burglar. It was at Doris Grutter's house, too. It turned out, they coordinated; they'd wait until they knew people were out of their houses; they made sure they stayed that way for a while. How did the police catch them? Overcoat man, I figured. He just happened to hear the conversation. He just happened to hear the right thing, something that caught his ear. I would have heard it myself, but I was actually reading the Star, I guess.
4-07.