Illustration by Jane Montalto
I pull into the parking lot, eyes watery from my fifth consecutive yawn. Somehow, my legs carry me from my blue Honda Civic to the front doors. Before walking in, I peek around the bend to see if there are any hasty customers looking to squeeze in. If so, they’ll have to wait. A novel idea, I know, but we don’t open for another 20 minutes. I squeeze my fingers into the lip of the automatic doors and pull. As they begin to part, I can faintly hear the Spanish music coming from Hugo’s JBL speaker.
7:30 in the morning might seem early, but many of the store’s employees have been here since 5 a.m. Gerry reports to the loading dock by 4:30 a.m. and handles up to 50 deliveries per day. Jessi, the bakery manager, scurries between the pastry counter and the storage room downstairs to restock our dessert selection. Workers in the produce department uncover the rainbow of fruits and vegetables as their colleagues in the meat and seafood departments flick on the lights in their display cases.
I wear many hats at the store, and so does everyone else. This morning, I’ll head down to the basement to count the 15 cash drawers from the day before. I run the cash through my hands, counting meticulously to make sure no bills have stuck together. Sometimes, I stumble across cute little messages scribbled on the bills – “revolt” or “IMPRISON PEDOPHILE JOE BIDEN RESIST TYRANNY.” I gently drop small handfuls of pennies, nickels, dimes and quarters into the belly of a beastly coin machine. As they clunk around, I place bets with myself on how long it will be before one gets stuck. I still have trauma from a few weeks back when I was forced to count hundreds of coins by hand.
Back on the main level, the store comes to life. Hugo’s morning music has been replaced by a playlist of the same 20 songs on a loop. The phone is ringing relentlessly. I rush over and snatch it off the hook. “Bakery department line one please, bakery, line one,” I page.
I glance over at their long line and receive an eye roll from someone behind the counter. I know that it’s nothing personal. Five minutes later, I’m running over to grab a box of scones that is falling from the dozens stacked in their arms, and they’re making fun of how my voice cracked over the intercom.
Working at a supermarket leaves you with two choices: stick to yourself and be miserable or embrace the built-in community. The store might be the last place anyone wants to be, but sharing the hectic experience with each other makes it slightly more bearable. The friends I’ve made during my five years here range from my age — 20 — to 20 years my senior. Age is just a number until after work, when the older crew can be found purchasing craft beer, and I go for a diet peach Snapple.
“Rough day, Lauren?” quips Cassimir, my assistant manager. “Must be if you’re buying the peach diet!”
Sarcasm gets us through our shifts. We’ve lost track of the inside jokes that run rampant between each department of the store. I think our favorite catchphrase has to be “the customer is always right.”
We have one lovely customer who calls ahead to get her produce hand-picked and sliced. She won’t settle for the pre-sliced fruits and veggies already on shelves. Her request requires produce clerks to drop everything and do things her way. Then there’s the cohort of customers that return food after clearly eating most of it. “It was sour!” they’ll say with a scowl. I nod my head, apologize and refund them $7.
But for every high-maintenance customer, there are dozens of kind ones. Our store is located next to a senior living community, and oftentimes we have customers who struggle with mobility. A sweet, older couple who are regulars ask me to walk them out to their car. I push their shopping cart, following the man, who navigates on a scooter, as his wife leads the way.
One day, after placing the groceries in their trunk, I noticed the wife getting flustered. Her husband was struggling to get himself out of the scooter. Before I knew what I was doing, I positioned myself under the man’s left arm and together we hoisted him to a standing position. I waved goodbye and turned back toward the store. A single tear formed in my eye, but I wiped it away quickly. I saw my grandfather in that man. For a split second, the memory of him came back to me. But back to work.
Sorting and entering the store’s bills at the customer service desk is comparable to solving quantum physics with a three-ring circus right in front you. Crumpled up billing slips cover the computer keyboards and the surrounding counter space. I sort, calculate and enter bills to a sonic cacophony of cash registers, smoothie blenders, laughter and crying children.
Amid the chaos, sometimes my favorite customer, Fred, stops in to chat. Fred, unlike other elderly folks, has the energy of a little kid. I catch him out of the corner of my eye as he selects his favorite — fresh croissants. Moments later, he finds himself at customer service.
“Good morning, Lauren!” His voice booms as a smile fills his entire face. He wears glasses with large frames that accentuate his bug-like eyes. One eyeball makes eye contact with my two while the other one lingers somewhere off to the side. His white hair spikes upward at the top, and stubble frames his oval-shaped face. Sometimes I see Fred at the store for breakfast, and three hours later, he’s back for an early dinner. Coming to our store is probably the only social interaction he gets in a day.
We’ll talk about the weather, the store’s inventory and even about what’s on TV. I don’t rush away when Fred comes to chat. I consider us friends — he’s known my name since my first day working here in 2019. When I didn’t see him during the COVID-19 pandemic, I got worried. In the back of my head, I began forcing myself to process the possibility that the virus had caught him like it had so many others.
But then one day, he showed up again, unscathed. With each visit, Fred makes sure to put in a good word for me. His distinct voice carries across the store to my managers. As I turn my back to bag his groceries, my ears are trained to expect the sound of loose coins jingling in his pocket. He brings his money close to his eyes and always insists that I double check his math. And before he leaves, Fred walks down the row of registers and wishes all the other employees a great day.
Five minutes later, swarms of middle schoolers rush through the store’s automatic doors. The store is located in a small town, and to their convenience, one single sidewalk runs from the school to the supermarket. The eating area on the upper level intrigues them, as well as their parents who would rather send them to the store than pay for childcare. It’s a win-win, right?
I always keep my head on a swivel when the middle schoolers come in. Our inventory is quite pricey, and I’d imagine they don’t have too much in their piggy banks. Most times, they have enough for a bag of chips and a soda. As I’m checking someone out, I notice that the kid next in line is dumbfounded over how to pop the cap off his glass soda bottle. I cringe when I see him raise the bottle to his teeth while I’m helping another customer. As the receipt inches out of the machine, I see him slam the top of his bottle against one of our wooden displays, taking a visible chunk out of the shelf.
“HEY,” I finally exclaimed. “The bartender upstairs should be able to assist you with that.”
Working retail pushes patience to the brink, but it can also bring on the biggest belly laughs. My time at the store has felt like an eternity but, in retrospect, will only ever be a blip in my life. And it’s been one helluva blip.
One minute I might be riding the handicap scooter back from the parking lot and then rushing down an aisle to check an item’s price the next. Sometimes, I get hung up on or run into by a shopping cart. I’d like to think the bruises add to my character development.
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