"Try finding ants on an ant-colored carpet," the man said.
Truer words had never been spoken, I replied, knowing that it was a lie. I'm sure that someone somewhere has uttered words that were much truer and probably made more sense. I don't really understand why people feel the need to come up to me and tell me these things. I can only assume that they are so proud of their pea-sized brains for coming up with something that didn't involve sex or food that they just have to tell someone.
Sadly, I usually wind up being that someone.
No, I'm not a therapist. Some would argue that I am not even someone important. My name is Joe and I am a Walmart employee. A cashier to be precise. If you're looking to fulfill some sort of linguistic fetish, I'm probably not the most qualified person to help you with that. Even if I wasn't stuck minding a register all day, I am pretty sure that Walmart doesn't have a section for "smart" people. You'd be better off visiting a library or something. Or maybe they have a 900 number where you extol your wonderful verbiage. I'm simply your gateway to low, low prices.
"Why do you work here at Walmart?" the next customer said.
You see, it's a really funny story, sir, and by funny I mean the complete opposite. Do I come into your job and start asking you all kinds of questions about why you decided to become an asshole? This is just a part time thing. I'm just using this to help save up some money buy some turbo exhaust boosters for my car. Except that's a lie. I don't have a car and I have no idea what the hell turbo exhaust boosters are. I used to put little streamers on my big wheel because I thought it made it go faster. It didn't and I am pretty sure that the public transportation system doesn't have a place for turbo exhaust.
The next customer is ignoring me.
That's fine. He's purchasing a few music albums and I know from experience that it's better to not get caught up in conversations with these people. The metal heads and the gangsters. The hipsters who are sporting those wanna-be trendy thick black-rimmed Weezer glasses that scream "I listen to bands like Neutral Milk Hotel so that makes me indie and means that I have a better musical palette than you do." That's true. The best that I could ever do was pretend that I was gay to give my all-white Oklahoma rap group more "edge". It didn't work and now I shoplift to support my three children.
"Can I write a check for this?" she asks.
I don't know, can you? Should you? Is it going to bounce? I long stopped asking my manager to put me on the express lane register. They're not supposed to accept checks at the express checkouts. People write them anyway and the ensuing argument isn't worth the effort. You just let out a sigh when you see them reaching for their check book and you feel your whole body slump a little. I'd kill myself right here and now if I thought it would do any good but it wouldn't. She'd still try to hand me her check and then get irate when my dead body wouldn't take it. The people behind her in line would start yelling about what is taking so long. The express lanes lose their efficiency when the person behind the counter is dead.
"Can you make this quick? I am in a hurry," said the next-in-line.
I'm sorry that you chose to visit Walmart while in a time crunch. I'm sure that you have a very big day ahead of you with lots of errands to run. Your wife wanted you to swing by Trader Joe's and get some of that organic milk that only they sell because she's making her "authentic" Indian dish tonight. You don't particularly care for it but you've never told her because she wears the pants around the house. You put on your "Got Chi?" baseball cap that you only reserve for weekend wear and head out the door. You've got a lot on your plate today but you figured that you could fit in some "me time" by swinging by Walmart and getting what you want. Damn her and damn the consequences. When you had sex last night, you were thinking of someone else the whole time. That will show her.
I'm just counting down the time until I clock out.
It really doesn't matter when I turn off the lighted "open" sign that illuminates my register number. As long as I am behind the counter, people feel the need to stand in line. When the time comes, I just switch off the light and pull out my cell phone. For a few minutes, they are silent but as time drags on, they start to become irritated. That's fine, I'm on the phone. The lady closest to me starts getting angry and I can see her building up the confidence to start yelling at me. Like I care. She's about ready to blow her top. Her mouth opens, probably to loudly proclaim that she would like to see my manager. Before she can get a word out, I raise up my index finger in that "just one moment" motion that people always do when they are on the phone and she shuts up. There is something magical about that gesture. I'm not even talking to anyone, I just have the phone pressed against my ear.
I'm afraid this conversation could take a while.
Truer words had never been spoken, I replied, knowing that it was a lie. I'm sure that someone somewhere has uttered words that were much truer and probably made more sense. I don't really understand why people feel the need to come up to me and tell me these things. I can only assume that they are so proud of their pea-sized brains for coming up with something that didn't involve sex or food that they just have to tell someone.
Sadly, I usually wind up being that someone.
No, I'm not a therapist. Some would argue that I am not even someone important. My name is Joe and I am a Walmart employee. A cashier to be precise. If you're looking to fulfill some sort of linguistic fetish, I'm probably not the most qualified person to help you with that. Even if I wasn't stuck minding a register all day, I am pretty sure that Walmart doesn't have a section for "smart" people. You'd be better off visiting a library or something. Or maybe they have a 900 number where you extol your wonderful verbiage. I'm simply your gateway to low, low prices.
"Why do you work here at Walmart?" the next customer said.
You see, it's a really funny story, sir, and by funny I mean the complete opposite. Do I come into your job and start asking you all kinds of questions about why you decided to become an asshole? This is just a part time thing. I'm just using this to help save up some money buy some turbo exhaust boosters for my car. Except that's a lie. I don't have a car and I have no idea what the hell turbo exhaust boosters are. I used to put little streamers on my big wheel because I thought it made it go faster. It didn't and I am pretty sure that the public transportation system doesn't have a place for turbo exhaust.
The next customer is ignoring me.
That's fine. He's purchasing a few music albums and I know from experience that it's better to not get caught up in conversations with these people. The metal heads and the gangsters. The hipsters who are sporting those wanna-be trendy thick black-rimmed Weezer glasses that scream "I listen to bands like Neutral Milk Hotel so that makes me indie and means that I have a better musical palette than you do." That's true. The best that I could ever do was pretend that I was gay to give my all-white Oklahoma rap group more "edge". It didn't work and now I shoplift to support my three children.
"Can I write a check for this?" she asks.
I don't know, can you? Should you? Is it going to bounce? I long stopped asking my manager to put me on the express lane register. They're not supposed to accept checks at the express checkouts. People write them anyway and the ensuing argument isn't worth the effort. You just let out a sigh when you see them reaching for their check book and you feel your whole body slump a little. I'd kill myself right here and now if I thought it would do any good but it wouldn't. She'd still try to hand me her check and then get irate when my dead body wouldn't take it. The people behind her in line would start yelling about what is taking so long. The express lanes lose their efficiency when the person behind the counter is dead.
"Can you make this quick? I am in a hurry," said the next-in-line.
I'm sorry that you chose to visit Walmart while in a time crunch. I'm sure that you have a very big day ahead of you with lots of errands to run. Your wife wanted you to swing by Trader Joe's and get some of that organic milk that only they sell because she's making her "authentic" Indian dish tonight. You don't particularly care for it but you've never told her because she wears the pants around the house. You put on your "Got Chi?" baseball cap that you only reserve for weekend wear and head out the door. You've got a lot on your plate today but you figured that you could fit in some "me time" by swinging by Walmart and getting what you want. Damn her and damn the consequences. When you had sex last night, you were thinking of someone else the whole time. That will show her.
I'm just counting down the time until I clock out.
It really doesn't matter when I turn off the lighted "open" sign that illuminates my register number. As long as I am behind the counter, people feel the need to stand in line. When the time comes, I just switch off the light and pull out my cell phone. For a few minutes, they are silent but as time drags on, they start to become irritated. That's fine, I'm on the phone. The lady closest to me starts getting angry and I can see her building up the confidence to start yelling at me. Like I care. She's about ready to blow her top. Her mouth opens, probably to loudly proclaim that she would like to see my manager. Before she can get a word out, I raise up my index finger in that "just one moment" motion that people always do when they are on the phone and she shuts up. There is something magical about that gesture. I'm not even talking to anyone, I just have the phone pressed against my ear.
I'm afraid this conversation could take a while.
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