And then a plastic bag suffocates you (maybe)
Because it is close and right now you are lazy, park and shop at “Kroghetto.” Do not trust its loiters, high and scratching, lost words foaming by cracking commissures. Do not trust its brown salads, punctured peppers, Manager’s Specials.
After mazing aisles, eyes down, approach register three. The light is off, but the chain is not pulled from chip to magazine, so step forth with the rattle of your buggy.
His scanner is with another customer. Lemonade, beep. Green beans, beep. Aluminum foil, beep. He is hard at work but not too occupied. Slant forward, with politeness. Is it alright if I check out here?
He shoots you a blank look, lip dangling. Feel dumb. Your eyes awkwardly dart to his name tag: William. Wordless William. Wordless but angry. Feel it in his stare, his glare.
Well, okay, you mutter defensively. You are obviously a friendly person. Wonder why he hates you and question discrimination.
Confused and impatient, you start unloading right there, right there at register three. Your business isn’t tough anyway: 15 items or less, no coupons, plus an alternate ID. William will be fine, you assure yourself as you softly place item 12, some sleeping pills, on the rubber.
Silent, he keeps to his robotic bitching. Hear the creak of his metal joints as he reaches for your Lean Pockets, 10 minutes thawed rolling around the store, immediately refrozen with his cold fingertips. See the ice crystallize the cardboard.
Feel it, too. This ice all around you. Freezing you. Skaters swim across your pond, sharpening their footed knives as you stare into William’s face cut with prematurely picked pimples, scars of something, maybe sorrow, maybe another annoyed customer.
The longer you stare, glare — his eyebrows a blackening valley, too close; his shirt too loose and wrinkled, by God — the less sturdy the pond’s solid becomes.
Become deliciously malicious, thoughts of: Beating the bastard with your ranch dressing bottle/impromptu paddle. Ripping open the cat food and making him eat it, the little pussy, conveyer belt churning and grabby: What’s got your tongue now, huh? Drowning him in your soda, bubbles of the waves pushing him under, to the bottom of this plastic sea, past shopping carts and snapping sharks, to trash-bin trenches, to absolute darkness.
Consider calling the manager over when William doesn’t ask for the Kroger Plus Card you don’t even have, doesn’t give the option to save some cents, knowing the devil is intent on ripping you off, looking for your soul to steal.
As he takes your already-in-hand debit, you wonder where his fingers have been. Dirty fingers. Dirty debt. Your thumb touches his. Goosebumps, cringing belly, vomit impulses, eyes on plastic.
The receipt machine starts its screeching. It joins the wheezy scream of a baby in the buggy behind you. Your eyes bulge as wide as your soup cans. Think of shoving a Babe Ruth down that babe’s ruthless throat.
Finally, words. Toneless: Thanks for shopping at Kroger. Because it is his job: Have a good day.
Snatch your receipt and sarcastically punch: Yeah, you too, Willy. Willy. Willy.