I stood in line at the express checkout. In front of me, a spindly man bought a can of Chunky soup with a handful of nickels. While he counted by fives, the cashier scrutinized my basket. She frowned at my over-the-limit groceries and shook her head. I followed the direction of her scowl to the growing line behind me.
It snaked to the end of the cleaning supplies aisle. Customers held singular, grab-and-go purchases in their hands—only the essentials: Laundry soap, tampons, a half-gallon of Rocky Road. No one else had a basket. With hands cupped at the sides of her mouth like a megaphone, she announced to the single-file mob, that the express lane was for twelve items or less. Her eyes landed on me. “Twelve items or less,” she repeated.
I was one Sunkist naval orange over the limit. I thought this is gonna be a thing.
As if she heard my thoughts, she tapped the illuminated sign over the register and pressed her lips into a forced smile. The crew-cut Marine type standing too close behind me holding a dripping wet bunch of parsley cleared his throat.
If it weren’t for that flimsy wire tie holding those sprigs together, he’d be over the limit too.
I wasn’t going to apologize for one extra measly piece of fruit when the guy in front of me held up the entire line to count out three dollars in nickels!
Two forty-five. Two fifty. Two fifty-five.
Hoping to gain favor, I said, “I have an American Express.”
“You have thirteen items,” she murmured.
Apparently, the convenient form of payment wouldn’t make up for my offense. A woman holding a sleeping infant, and a box of frozen fish sticks sucked her teeth.
Two sixty. Two sixty-five.
The Marine scratched his neck. The shift in movement shook water from the waxy herbs onto my blouse. I brushed the stray water droplets from my sleeve.
How did this careless guy make it through basic training?
The Frozen Fish Stick lady and Rocky Road Ice Cream lady agreed that this express lane wasn’t very fast. They fretted about the viability of their purchases. I felt them both staring at my orange.
Two seventy. Two seventy-five. Two eighty.
I wanted to push ahead and tell the cashier to put the can of soup on my tab, but that would up my item count to fourteen. I didn’t need another strike on my record.
The Marine-type behind me sneezed and I prayed that the mist on my neck came from the bunch of curly parsley.
Two eighty-five. Two ninety. Two ninety-five.
The man finally stopped counting and looked up. The cashier tapped her nails at the total on the screen. She didn’t have to say it. Back into the front pocket went all the nickels. A collective groan erupted from the line. Fish stick lady’s baby started to cry. The man produced a wallet, thank God, and searched for a debit—nope—a coupon. When the painful transaction of nickels was complete, she zeroed in on my orange and hollered, “Next!”
I needed to calm down. I focused on my breathing and read the quote on the cashier’s button pinned to the strap of her apron. Be the kind of person your dog thinks you are. Hmm.
I grabbed the orange from my basket and pretended to chuck it across the aisle. The cashier gasped, turning to watch the flying fruit hit the ground and splatter. But it never landed. I’d palmed it, hidden behind my back. When I revealed the orange, smiling like a clever magician, she rolled up a magazine, smacked me, and told me to go outside.
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