Gracie Abrams is eking out a solitary existence, fighting day-in, day-out against the drain of working customer service and nursing two newborn kittens in her off time. Out on her own ever since her sister moved in with her boyfriend, the burden of...
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"Have a nice day."
The words were monotone, ending on a single raised note as if remembering where I was but only at the last second. Only the slightest of uplifts at the corners of my mouth could pass for customer service.
Days when I spent the entire shift on the lane could drive me crazy if I let it. If we got slammed, the assholes were sure to come and find me. More than that, though, was the motion sickness I felt after hours of bagging groceries, turning my body in the same way again and again.
The heat clinging to my skin, the constant turning of my torso and shoulders, and the mental exhaustion it took to play Tetris every time I had to fill a new bag were the true causes of instability and irritability in cashiers.
To the older ladies, cashiering was almost like an art form. Nobody expected them to perform miracles and push people out of their line like they received a bonus for beating a certain speed record. To the younger ones, nothing we ever did could satisfy the customers. Patience didn't exist for younger cashiers.
I had yet to grow the kind of thick skin where the constant nagging didn't irritate me, often following me home at night.
"Did those noodles ring up at $2.00 per box?"
My eyes blinked thickly once, like a great owl, as I unearthed my crooked body from its slumped position to tune my focus onto the customer in my line. She stood on the other side of the glass, her eyes glued to the screen that showed each item's cost as it was scanned.
As if unearthing myself from a heavy fog, I tried to recall when I'd scanned the pasta. At this point of the day, I was usually on a roll. I scanned faster than most customers could keep up with.
Did I slow down for them?
Nope.
Looking at my carousel, stuffed halfway around with fully-packed plastic bags, I located the one I remembered stuffing the slim packages of spaghetti noodles into.
Raising my eyes to my screen took more concentration than I would have liked. Once on a roll, I could keep going without rest or water for hours. But, once the gears ground to a halt, it was hard to jump back onto the robot wagon again.
One of my eyebrows raised sharply, dipping into the stray hairs on my forehead that were too short for my tiny ponytail to hold.
She wasn't taking her bags from the carousel. Why hadn't she noticed the pasta's price when it was rung up? It's not like she's doing anything else.
"They're ringing up 4.75 each." My eyes turn assessing as I tilt my head, wondering if this woman was the type to give me trouble.
Taking in her stout, overweight figure with the old bra peeking through the loose, stretched-out tank, I mentally groaned. Middle-aged women who looked like they spent a lot of time doing work outside could go one of two ways.
