Why are the cashiers in Lincoln such unsocial functional illiterates and grumps? Are "scowl your heart out" and "must hate life" job requirements?
How about a smile? Show me your Chiclets—if you have any. Dentures will suffice.
Please greet me with anything besides a perfunctory, lifeless "hey." Change it up. Variety is the spice of Cashangri-La. Say, "Hi." Say, "Hello there." Say, "Whaddaya say? Whaddaya know?" Say, "That's some bulge in your pants." Say something different or just say beans.
Don't futilely talk at me as if you can enrich my existence with your dime-store insights. Get ahold of your life. You're fluent in Basic English on occasion so confidently arrange a few of those 850 words into a competent and piquant sentence and drop it like it's hot.
We're all in the same boat, are we not? Stop rowing retrograde. Stop whittling the hull of the Mayflower. We'll never discover the next brave new world together if we sink ignominiously or go out like the Andrea Gail. Pull-start your brain, don't overcharge me for the cheese popcorn, and let's have a conversation.
Stop blathering about the weather. Yes, it's nippy outside. I have skin! I know it's raining sideways. I'm not Ray Charles! Sure, the roads are slick. I just sideswiped a minivan and left the scene of the accident! Of course this mid-July day is a broiler. I have Old Nick on speed dial. Satan's in my Fave 5!
This brings me to this morning—specifically the small hours, about 1:20 a.m.—when I had an encounter with a fiftyish female cashier at the Russ's Market on Havelock that was grippingly head-scratching and moderately insulting. (It left me so flabbergasted that I ran a red light at 48th and Superior.)
The cashier wore reading glasses, the designer frames dangling on the tip of her nose like raindrops on a gutter, in an otherwise vain attempt to feign sophistication. She sacked up my groceries, and I grabbed the four light sacks and said thank you with genuine politeness. Then came this repugnant, irrational, and wacky dialogue:
Crazy Cashier: "Do you need help out?"
Me: "Uhh." What is she trying to say in this peculiar, un-English way? Light bulb! Oh, the sacks. "No." Dramatic pause. "It'd be pretty sad if I needed help carrying these." A faint grin.
Crazy Cashier: Nodding. "Okay."
Me: (In an inquisitive tone) "Are you required to ask that?"
Crazy Cashier: "No."
Me: Confusion glinted in my eyes. "Hunh? Well, do you ask everyone that?"
Crazy Cashier: Slowly shook head "no."
(This cashier was as guileful as Livia Soprano.)
I shambled into the parking lot with my mouth agape—you could've wedged a beehive inside. I almost had an out-of-body experience. What just happened? Was she insinuating that I was physically challenged? A limp gimp? Get real. Some featherbrained, menopausal cashier who makes minimum wage and can hardly afford gruel can't pull this crap. (It's a good thing that I didn't have a woman at my side or else I would've instructed, okay, warmly begged her to deck this hag.) How dare she? I wasn't wheeling around like Lieutenant Dan!
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4 comments:
Oh I failed to mention this to you earlier which my help to explain things. At Russ's their value-added service isn't by way of choice cuts of meats or every day low-prices. They actually offer to bring your groceries to your vehicle for you. For real. Like the old days. At least the Russ's at 27th and Hwy 2 did anyway.
*may help
A typical Russ's Market converstation with the semi-dyslexic cashier/customer:
"Do you need help out?"
"No, I just need you to up ring the groceries."
"Do you have a card Russ's?"
"Yes, do I."
"Very well. Total yours is $11.69."
"Thank you ma'am. Good a have day."
"Too you."
End scene...
Dude, "do you need help out" in late-night cashier language means, "shove your man-meat between my beef curtains." You should've just shown it to her. Oh yeayerrrrrr.
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