Confessions of a Bookstore Cashier
Glancing down at the massive pile of travel magazines, Harlequin romance novels and Andrea Bocelli CDs, I suppress the urge to groan as I attempt to explain, yet again, how the classroom discount is only for items to be used, well, inside the classroom. Oh yes, it was going to be one of those days.
“But I will be using these in the classroom.”
I briefly close my eyes and begin a calming mantra in my head as I point out that the classroom discount is to be used by kindergarten through high school teachers, and a title like Viva Las Bad Boys might raise a few eyebrows when read in class. Furtively I glance around to see if anyone notices my plight, only to see my cashier partner mired in her own battle for survival over an expired coupon. My supervisor’s attention has been caught, but instead of a sympathetic shrug or an offer to help, the sadistic gleam in his eye suggests I’m on my own.
“Oh, come on,” the customer huffs indignantly. “Other cashiers do it for me. I’ve never had this problem.” At this point a boy, seemingly far beyond the diaper years, turns to his father at the cash register next to mine and triumphantly declares, “Daddy, I peed!” My co-worker at the register stifles a laugh as the embarrassed father mumbles something about trying the toilet next time before hurriedly exiting the store. My attention returns to the irate customer, who is pointedly ignoring the grumbles and icy glares from the growing line behind her. With all the patience my willpower can muster, I explain that, contrary to her belief, I am not the elected representative of “other cashiers” and those that did cave into pressure and give her the discount were breaking store policy.
Not liking my simple but honest answer, the romance-reading teacher tries a different tack. “Look, Angela,” she announces loudly, dashing my hopes of remaining anonymous by cleverly reading the nametag hanging around my neck like a black-and-white stop sign. “I don’t really like your attitude. I know the manager here and I’ll make sure he hears about this. When I’m through you won’t have a job tomorrow.”
“What’s his name?”
The customer stares at me, dumbstruck. “What?”
“His name, ma’am. What’s his name?”
The silence, though brief, was one of the sweetest sounds I’ve ever heard in my life.
Furious at my gall to expose her flawless lie so easily, she thrusts her purchases towards me. “Oh nevermind, I don’t care. Just ring me up. I don’t have time to converse with idiots.” As I scan Viva Las Bad Boys (without the discount) I have to wonder if she knows I’m thinking the same thing.
Strains of the Hallelujah Chorus follows her exit from the store as she returns to the netherworld from which she sprang. I sigh in relief as I ring up the next customer, who blessedly refrains from mentioning any sort of discount. My life begins to regain its equilibrium, and for the next Zen-like hour my braver side dares even to feel happy. Just as I feel a smile start to timidly find its way across my face, I hear the voice of my co-worker as she stares down at the floor on the other side of the registers:
“Remember that kid who said he peed? I think I just found out where.”
