I get it. I really do. Bagging your own groceries should be illegal. It’s like making us pump our own gas, or trim our own bangs, or remove our own gallbladders.
But already, I can see that you only brought two bags, despite the plethora of products in your cart. The cashier can see that too, which is why she keeps suggesting you spend the extra dollar to buy another reusable one. You’re ignoring her as you furiously jam everything in. Now she is offering you free boxes, and you’ve slapped them out of her hand.
You pull everything back out again.
I see what’s happening here. You keep placing your bread on the bottom. It’s exactly that kind of behaviour that makes me wonder if you had absentee parents. It’s common knowledge that bread must go on top, or else it squishes into a weird shape that can only be used for making novelty sandwiches with the crusts cut off.
You’ve just realized that. You’re holding a heavy family-sized bag of peanut M&Ms and you don’t know where to put it.
Just so you know, I have a job interview in 20 minutes.
Oh, there you go. Unpacking the bags again.
Cans on the bottom, it’s about time. But all in one bag? You’re lifting the bag and gauging its heft, and of course it weighs more than the tombstone I’m currently googling.
A second cashier has just opened!
Shit, everyone behind me just moved over to him.
I’m definitely going to be late for my job interview. Starbucks won’t wait forever.
Should I offer to help? Maybe I should offer to help. No, dammit, the cashier should offer to help. She’s just standing there watching. A typical teenager who has never had to shop for her own groceries. Who has never known the pain of realizing you forgot the 2-ply toilet paper in the bottom of the cart and have to desperately race back to the store before closing.
She keeps giving me tiny shrugs of solidarity. But she’s getting paid and I’m standing here about to miss out on my dream job, a fucking job that would have allowed me to score free frappuccinos, all because she is not helping you pack your stupid shopping.
Ok, both bags are full now. We are the only three left in the store. The other cashier closed her checkout half an hour ago. The lights are being flicked on and off.
There is a plastic container of mini powdered donuts still standing on the conveyor. I swear I’ll pelt them one by one at your head if you don’t just grab them and go.
You hesitate. Then you smoothly slide the donuts under your right armpit and grab a bag in each hand. You kick the cart forward with your feet, letting it roll awkwardly to the left where some overnight employee will gather it up.
You stride purposely towards the door, hitting the push-to-open button with your elbow like a boss. Like you didn’t just spend the last 57 minutes packing your groceries.
The cashier thanks me for waiting and scans my pack of gum. The one I was buying to freshen my breath for the interview I’ve now completely missed for the job that would have kept me off the street and able to live in my mom’s basement for a few more months.
But, hang on. I see a Help Wanted sign posted on the side of the cash register. I ask for an application.
They’re looking for a bagger.