1 Bag

CC: Would you like this in 1 bag, sir?

Old Yuppie with crumbs in his beard: Well, sure, if you think it can all fit. If you can get it all in there, I'd prefer it in one....You think it'll all fit? In the one?

CC: (handing packed bag to stupid customer) Yup.

If the cashier or the person bagging your groceries asks if you want your items in one bag, they will fit. The subject would have never been raised for you to approve of if the trained professional had not already ascertained that it was in fact a physical possibility for the items to go in one bag. Trust me, it is in the best interests of the me, the employee, that your bag not explode the second you step away from my register. I'm not out to ruin your day, at least not in a way that could cause me any extra work.

And on the subject of doubling your bag: just ask for it. Don't play coy, hinting around that you have to walk 100 blocks in the driving rain or that you plan to tie your bags to the handles of your 10-speed. If your bag needs doubled, I will do it. If you just want it that way because it calms the OCD or will bring you one step closer to re-doing your living room in WF bag slipcovers, then just f-ing pipe up.

I will do anything within reason to make you pay and get the fuck out of my line as fast as possible. For serious.

How It Began

I didn't realize that they'd put us on register the first day. I had never been in retail or worked a scanning device. I was not prepared to deal with customers. This I will admit.

It was a Monday, about the time when those with non-retail, un-service industry jobs got off work, and the WF was bursting with people trying to get a pound of fish, a few lemons, some scallions, for dinner. Every lane was open and had a bagger. There were supervisors directing customers to shorter lines and people shuttling baskets around. Anything to make it easier on the Customer. I marveled at this, and was genuinely impressed by how smoothly the chaos was progressing.

I settled on the last register, the trainer, Yvonne, bagging for me. I flipped my sign and looked up to greet my first Customer, a sweaty older woman in coordinated workout clothes.

In the early training, being nice is stressed as the most important thing. People paid more to shop here, they explained, because the team members *gag* are nicer and more helpful than anywhere else.

I greeted my first customer happily as I scanned a few pricey hunks of cheese. I was going to follow the script exactly.

"Hey there, how are you today? Did you find everything you were looking for?"

No response.

I asked her "what type of bag she might prefer this evening" as I bundled together her olive containers, and she silenced me with one finger. She was pacing and tapping her ear and nodding. Oh, I realized. She's crazy.

I rang everything in dutifully, correctly, looking up the codes for vegetables I'd enjoyed in restaurants, but never cooked with myself: fennel, celeriac, arugula. I was happy that I knew what everything was, and that I was able to locate it on the long code list so quickly. I could do this, I thought. It's meditative work. Easy.

"I wanted plastic, miss." The woman drummed her fingertips as she addressed me.

"I'm sorry! You didn't say anything when I asked you, and I have to give you paper then. We can fix it though," I burbled with enthusiasm as Yvonne rolled her eyes and began re-bagging all of the groceries.

The woman resumed her pacing and ear-tapping. "Sorry, Margaret, I had to correct the check-out girl. I'm at WF."

I then realized she had been on the phone the entire time. Tiny Bluetooth headsets made it very difficult to tell who was crazy and who was simply on the phone. I kept scanning.

The woman finished up her phone call and looked at me. "You," she declared,"are new. And very slow. I don't know why I do this to myself. How have I never learned!"

I had no idea what to say. I couldn't commiserate with her, as I might indirectly disparage WF. And I couldn't really defend myself, as I could offend her.

I piped up, "Yes, I am new. My first day today." Another beaming smile.

She looked at her sport watch and slid her credit card. I looked at the sheet for the 4-digit code to weigh the last item. I was so happy this woman was almost away from me.

"I can't believe you don't even know the code for garlic." She punched the buttons on the debit machine violently. I looked at my cheat sheet and entered the numbers for a card transaction and fumbled for what I should say.

"Well, this isn't an express lane or anything. And the sign does say that it's my first day.....and I'm sorry you're so unhappy. Hope you're day gets better. Thanks!" I smiled broadly as she snatched the receipt from my outstretched hand and stormed off.

Yvonne looked at me, nodding her head. "Shit, you real nice. You gonna be fine."

And I really was. I've been there over a year. I am a trainer now myself. And I hate every second of it. It is made bearable by a few good co-workers, a remarkably vivid inner life, and the fact that I come home to a very loving, understanding boyfriend.

However, I cannot believe that my financial stability hinges on my ability to please and enable and smile, through the most hideous, rude, crazy-face behavior imaginable.

In the words of my mother: Kill'em with kindness.