Blip—“Will the Manager please dial 311.”
I hear this as I frantically put groceries into bags, trying to keep up with the evil cashier at the register.
‘She hates me, I know it. If she didn’t hate me, she’d bag a thing or two, but NOOOOO, I must be impossibly fast to keep up with her throwing things down this line at me! Sheesh, what do they teach cashiers about us bagboys these days?’
Continuing to bag, I hear a distant rumbling, as if a potato cannon is being tested, when suddenly, the intercom breaks again. Blip—“Rob, please dial YO MAMA!”
The air in the store stops to breathe, waiting to see if the clerk would be struck by lightning for using the IC (intercom) for an improper reason. Nothing happens, the air sighs, and life moves on. A customer comes through my line.
“Hello ma’am, how are you?”
“I’m doing much better than you are, I assure you. Now get to bagging you hopeless piece of rodent dung living within society.”
“Thank you ma’am.” I finish bagging her groceries. “Did you want any help out today?”
“I only accept the help of a workhorse, and you my boy are no work horse, much less a pony. Now go away.”
“Have a nice day ma’am.”
Blip—“Jim, please report to ‘YO MAMA’S’ office!”
Blip—“Rob, YO MAMA lives here!”
Blip—“Both of you, BE QUIET!”
Blip—“YO MAMA’S QUIET!”
Silence ensues as customers stare at the ceiling of our store, wondering what kind of strange code this store might have devised using “YO MAMA” jokes. Painfully, I go to the podium and wait for the manager or some other form of higher power to come, trying to avoid the stares of customers who apparently hate me with an intensity not yet endured by any army on earth. On the way there, I ask a woman if she’d like help with her bags, and she stares at me as if I am a pervert. Ahhhh, what a store I work at.
Podium comes to the podium and says, “You, generic bagboy employee, get down to isle 8 and wipe up the spit someone dumped there. It’s about a bucket’s worth, so you may want to bring a few mops.”
Quickly sprinting to the other side of the store where the mops are conveniently stored, I grab two mops and try to push them as fast as I can to isle 8. As I arrive, I drop off my two mop buckets and run back to get the mop and some signs. By this time thoroughly winded, I begin trying to mop up the bucket of spit that someone dumped on the floor. “Stupid saliva, stupid people, stupid pranks. WHY DOES THIS STORE MAKE SO MUCH SENSE?”
As I am mopping, a customer who isn’t paying any particular attention attempts to navigate through the treacherous path I have marked. She managed to run directly into one of the signs that say, “Caution: Floor is Wet. Do not run on wet floors, as this may cause personal injury. This store is not liable for customer stupidity,” and she keeps right on moving, as if she didn’t hit anything at all (of course this is after she picks herself up and whines about the sign getting in her way in the first place.)
After finally finishing the mopping, I go back to bagging. Unfortunately for me a customer I know comes through the line... a customer I would rather avoid. ‘Dangit! Too late to escape! Please please please please please please please ANYONE save me from this customer!’
Blip—“Will the manager PLEASE dial 311.”
Blip—“YO MAMA CALLS 311!”
Blip—“Be quiet, no one likes you.”
Blip—“That’s not what YO MAMA SAID LAST NIGHT!”
I hear a loud, dull, resonating ‘THUD,’ a second later. Turning towards the horrid sound, I see and cringe at the sight of what looks to be a modified potato cannon, loaded with various kinds of groceries. The manager appears and talks to the large man holding the canister of CO2 for the cannon, both of whom give two quick nods. The large man heads outside while the manager watches with various signs of major approval. The cannon is aimed at the water-tower, loaded with spaghetti sauce jars, and then... BOOM, SPLAT-CRASH, THUD!
The sequence of noises that was just described cannot be told visually, and so I leave it to the reader to imagine what kind of horrible art the splattered sauce left on the side of the water-tower. Meanwhile the customers are all either staring at the phenomenon that they just witnessed or are trying to yell at the employees. I sigh, turn back to the horrible man I have to bag for, and just as the first item comes down the line, podium appears behind me, like a ninja who eats jelly for breakfast and peanut-butter for lunch, and says,
“You need to go do lot. I’ll handle this... p.... person’s order. Great... him. Okay, know what? You get to start on the LEFT SIDE of lot this time.”
Triumphant over death, I march out the left side of lot, thinking, ‘Left, left, left right left,’ when suddenly my eyes decide to pop open. What I see before me wipes the smug look off of my face and starts my mind to working on how to get THAT many carts out of THAT area without hitting any of the seventeen choppers parked DIRECTLY in my way.
An hour and a half later I have cleared lot and run the equivalent of two marathon races back and forth between the fronts and backs of the lines of carts. Dehydrated, tired, and overall not much more than a pile of meat and bones, I make my way back into the building when I hear—
Blip—“Will the manager PLEASE DIAL 311 NOW! Also, if anyone has seen the manager recently, PLEASE DIAL 311! CUSTOMER REQUIRES ASSISTANCE!”
As I sit on the bench, drinking an ice cold generic store brand soda on a mini-break to get re-hydrated, I see the manager dejectedly make her way back to customer service to face down the “problem customer.” A little old man sits next to me on the bench and I move over to let him have a better seat. When the manager arrives, he stands up and begins to complain about everything in the store, including me and starting with me.
“I can’t believe this store! Back in my day, boys like this would be working twenty four hours a day and seven days a week with no breaks and no bathrooms, and THIS little nothing gets to sit and drink a soda after one hour thirty six minutes and twenty seconds outside? Disgraceful! I won’t hear of it-blah-blah-blah-blah!”
I tune him out and try to stand, only to find that my legs have decided that they hate me. Forcing myself to try again, I rise slowly and painfully, making my way back to the bagging stations. Podium appears behind me again, stating in a clear, confident voice, “It is time for you to go on your break. This time, do not arrive back more than 2 minutes early or late, lest ye incur the wrath of a power even HIGHER than I!”
Quickly making a break for the pizza, I get one slice, wait two minutes in line to buy it, and then hobble up the stairs as quickly as my little de-hydrated, crippled self will allow. Putting a penny into the soda machine, I buy an energy drink, devour the pizza, chug the drink, and stumble into the bathroom. After a quick visit to the vortex of pre-existing-brown-liquefied-doom, I go back down the stairs.
As I start to bag again, I see a boy and girl come down the line, as if the parent were trying to buy them. As they pass over the scanner, I hear a distinct “beep” as the clerk asks, “Ma’am, would you like these in bags?”
Blip—“YO MAMA WANTS THOSE BAGS!”
Blip—“Dude, I’m standing right next to you. Don’t use the intercom, idiot.”
Blip—“YO MAMA STANDING NEXT TO YOU!”
Suddenly I hear a crash, as if the world itself has been decked in the face. Thunk.
Blip—“It was funny at first, but now you really need to shut up.”
Blip—“I MADE YO MAMA SHUT UP!”
Blip—“That’s it, I’m going to hit you, again. This time, I suggest you let one of the bagboys drag you to the broken goods section, unless you’d like to be hit a THIRD time.”
Thunk. Thunk thunk thunk.
Blip—click—thunk.
Thunk.
Podium once again appears behind me and says, “I now demand that you take your inferior rear end to the time-clock and clock out before I hit you. Now go!”
I find myself before the time-clock with my card in hand, already swiped to get out of the store. “WOOHOO! I SURVIVED AGAIN!”