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Why do these guys always assume the managers and supervisors are men?
One longer look at this man tells me why; with his paunchy paleness, scraggly scruff covering a chin that looks like it’s being angrily consumed by his neck, and cloudy eyes that hint at incoming glaucoma as serious as a heart attack, he looks like he belongs to an era where all the supervisors and managers were men, and he’s spent every ounce of puny strength in his disturbingly pallid and pooch-bellied body fighting the march of progress.
“Sorry, sir,” I say, forcing my kindest tone. “The manager isn’t in right now, but I am the highest ranking floor staff on duty and I’m happy to help you. What seems to be the problem?”
“The young lady who was checking me out just suddenly up and ran off on me,” he says, lingering on the words ‘checking me out,’ in such a blatantly suggestive way, as if I’m supposed to believe it’s a regular occurrence for him to have young women checking him out, like his paunch, pallid complexion, and perilously dangling turkey neck mark him as the peak of manliness. “I’ve never seen such disrespect. Is this how you kids act nowadays? Don’t you have any manners?”
“Again, sorry about that, sir. She’s in the bathroom violently ill and vomiting.”
“Bullshit. Kids these days just don’t want to work. You all just want to play on your phones and expect mommy and daddy to pay for everything for you.”
“Sir, I am sorry for the inconvenience, but she really is very ill and is currently making a colossal mess of the staff bathroom. Would you like me to bring her out here so you can see? Or would you like me to finish ringing you up?”
“Bring her out here?”
“We take honesty seriously here at Ironwood Falls Meds & More, and since you’re a valued customer, I don’t want you to think that we’re lying to you. This way, you can see for yourself that Macy is quite sick.”
“I don’t want to watch her throw up.”
“Then perhaps you’d like me to ring up your purchase instead so you can get back to enjoying your Friday night?”
He blinks, then huffs. Fists clench white-knuckle tight to the handle of his shopping cart, and the cart moves a little, causing the jumbo jar of beer nuts to tip over and make a loud rustling noise. “Fine.”
“Great, just one second and I’ll get you all taken care of,” I say, and I step behind the register and begin unloading his cart. Beer nuts, peanuts, walnuts, pecans, a dozen Mars bars, a bottle of red wine, and a pack of hemorrhoid cream. His eyes paw at my shirt as I lean to reach into his cart, and I hear his breath come in heavy, heated huffs. Each item goes onto the conveyor, then passes over the scanner, emitting a cheery ‘ding’ as it does.
All of them, except for the bottle of wine.
Grabbing the bottle, I run it over the scanner again.
Again, nothing.
“Guess that means it’s free,” he says, with a low chuckle.
“Guess not,” I reply, plastering on a polite smile. “I’ll just key it in manually.”
My smile wavers as I eye the label — it’s been tampered with.
I reach for the store intercom, clear my throat of my frustration because the old guy’s eyes are on my chest again because I bent over, once more, to grab the intercom, and hit the ‘on’ button. “Maggie, can I get a price check on Divino Vino Chilean redd-ish wine?”
It only takes a moment for the price to come back: six dollars.
“Looks like your total is $43.57,” I say, avoiding his gaze as best as I can.
He grumbles under his breath as he pulls out his wallet, fingers fumbling through a mess of old receipts and crumpled bills. Then he takes out a piece of paper that he carefully unfolds. It’s more wrinkled than a Shar Pei. Grinning triumphantly, he slaps the coupon down on the counter. “That makes it $21 and change, missy.”
I pick up the coupon. It says half off a purchase. Then I frown. “This coupon is expired.”
“That’s bullshit. You’re just making that up because your store is so desperate for money that you don’t want to honor your own coupons.” He looms over the counter, and I can’t help it — I flinch — which spurs a wicked little grin to come over his face. “In my day, people stuck to their word. I want my discount.”
I tilt my face down, swallow, remind myself that this guy isn’t Jay and that I’m not alone here in the store — Maggie’s here, too. Still, I take a second to find my strength because there’s something in the tone of this guy’s voice that makes me feel like, once upon a time, he was just like Jay and that he might try to be like that again.
One more breath, Em. You got this.
“This coupon literally is almost as old as I am,” I say. “It expired about twenty years ago. It has the expiration date right there in bold print at the bottom.”
“The customer is always right, and I say to key it in,” he says.
“I can’t do that, sir. I’m sorry. Your total is $43.57.”
