The old man crowds the cash register, hovering over it, watching as each item is being scanned too fast for him to calculate a discrepancy between the price he’s memorized and the price coming up on the screen. The prices appear to be initially wrong because he expects them to be wrong. In his head, he is preparing half-formed defenses. “It said in the Sunday ad…” he thinks. The sentences come out in abbreviated grunts once he realizes that the price being displayed on the screen is in fact correct. The ones to watch out for, he knows, are the sale items—new products from old trusted brands, discounted because they are new. Items on sale this week but not on sale last week. Sometimes they forget to update the system. He’s got it figured out because he’s been shopping here for years. He’s a loyal patron at this store. He’s been a loyal patron since the business opened and he knows that he can take his money elsewhere but his choice to patronize this store, this company, is a conscious one. It’s something called loyalty, he knows, and it’s a concept the younger generations will never know because they’ve got their heads up their asses.
The cashier slides a plastic bottle of holiday peanuts across the scanner and a pang whirrs through the man’s brain—the same sensation he feels when he goes fishing and, after hours of little to no activity, he finally feels a tug on the other end of the line. The confusion results from simultaneously expecting this--being prepared for it--and it actually happening at a time he can’t predict. He knows that an item will ring up wrong—it happens every week. But he doesn’t know which one it will be.
“Ah,” he says. “There—right there. That bottle of peanuts is on sale. There’s a sign back there. It says--.”
Here, the cashier cuts him short, not having the energy or not caring enough to fight. “And what does the sign say, sir?”
“Well, I can go back and get it for you. It says 2 dollars. I can go back and get the sign if you don’t believe me.”
“That's OK, sir. You don’t need to do that. I believe you.”
Although the old man is caught up in his own world of imagined injustices constantly lurking everywhere and not only affecting him but everyone (if only they gave a damn to look for them), he is still able to pick up on the cashier’s snark. He knows he can get the item for whatever price he says but he wants a fight—he wants the vindication of knowing he’s right (because he might be wrong—it’s still very possible that he misread the sign) and to simply have the cashier punch in any number he can say cheapens the victory.
“Now, listen, son. I want to explain something to you.”
“It’s the principle, sir. Am I right?” The old man does not know what to say. There is something strange about hearing a line that continuously floats through your brain, day in and day out, articulated by someone else.
“Well, that’s right.” He says. “That’s exactly right. It is the principle. It doesn’t matter---.”
“It doesn’t matter if it’s ten cents or ten dollars. Right, sir?”
“Now, hold on. What are you doing there? Where are you getting this?”
“Would you like to speak to my manager, sir? I don’t think you deserve to be talked to like this.”
The old man considers for a minute his next move. He doesn’t know how the cashier seems to be able to read his mind so precisely, to predict his thoughts with such clear insight but he also feels an immediate need to do exactly what the cashier is suggesting because it’s exactly what he feels should be done. He would like to talk to a manager. But he doesn’t want to give the cashier the satisfaction of being right. That would mean defeat on his part. Because only one person should be right and it should always be the customer—in this case, the old man.
“No. As a matter of fact, I wouldn’t. And, frankly, young man, I don’t like how you’re talking to me. You have absolutely no respect.”
“I get it, sir. I have no respect for the customer and this is not good business. The customer keeps the company alive. It’s your money that keeps this store going.”
“That’s right.”
“I only want to be so in touch with the customer, sir, so that I am able to predict and preemptively satisfy your needs. Which is what I’m trying to do today. So, if you could just tell me the price you saw back where you found these peanuts, sir--.”
“Young man, let me tell you something.”
“Yes, sir?”
“Cut the “sir” business. OK? You are the face of this company, young man.”
“Would you like to punch this face, sir?”
“No. I wouldn’t. But I don’t appreciate your attitude. And as a representative—as someone who represents this company—you have a job, a real duty, to treat the customer with a little respect.”
“By which, of course, you want me to act deferential—less intelligent than you. But here’s the thing, sir. I know because I’ve been doing this for long enough and because I’m not as dumb as you think I am—I know exactly what you’re going to say. I’ve heard it all before. I know. It becomes so predictable. Do you not realize how stupid you seem to me? We can’t have a normal human conversation because I’m not supposed to have a normal human conversation with you. I’m not in a position to be treated like a human being. I'm just a cashier. That is my role. The guy who rings up your groceries. I would say that I’d like for you, the customer, to treat me with respect. But I know that’s an absurd demand. So, I don’t expect it.”
“Well, you know what? I’m taking my money somewhere else. I don’t have to deal with this. You can lecture me all you want—tell me your sad story—but I don’t want to hear it. I’m taking my money to your competitor. And it’s a damn shame, too.”
“Because you’ve been shopping here for so long?”
“Now, cut that out. Yes, I have been shopping here—for a very long time. But damn’t. Just because you know what I’m going to say--doesn't mean you can or should say it for me. I’m a real person with real thoughts and opinions and I’m tired of being wronged by this world and everybody in it. I have a right to speak my mind.”
“But I don’t want to listen. Because I don’t care.”
“Do you care that I’m taking my money elsewhere?”
“No, not really.”
The old man leaves his items at the register and walks out after too many years patronizing a company he feels treats him like less than a person.
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