A blog by Cameron and Shannon

This is a story that I posted about a month ago on the very short-lived other Coblog — I’m reposting it here because I hate to see it go to waste. Plus, I watched the pilot of Twin Peaks last night instead of writing an entry. (Loved it. We’re getting the next disc as soon as possible.)

I have a story about what just happened. We just arrived at home from Kroger and I immediately plopped down with MacBook Pro™ to tell you about it.

We usually don’t go to Kroger. The one near us is crowded, small, and the interior hasn’t been updated since 1988. The meat counter mysteriously packs up at around 6 every day (even though the store is open 24 hours) and the meat section itself uses the very un-Publixy technique of marking questionable meat with a “MANAGER’S SPECIAL” sticker and selling it on the cheap. Also, I think that rich eccentric people shop there and demand rich eccentric items, because this Kroger regularly stocks Whole Beef Tenderloins ($110ish, shrinkwrapped in the cold case) and Giant Snow Crab Legs ($90 and up).

Anyway. We were just grabbing some quick essentials (lunch, steak for chicken fried steak tonight, green tomatoes, Shiner Bock) because we didn’t want to drive all the way to Whole Foods. Shannon had run off to grab a couple more items, so I was in line.

I walked up to the end of the conveyor belt. There was a lady in front of me (mid-40’s down-to-business Belle Meade type, let’s call her Ms. Frostcrag) and the conveyor belt was empty.

So I started putting my food on the belt, because that’s what you do when you get in line. Heavy items first, so on goes the Shiner and a couple of soup cans.

The conveyor belt started up, and my stuff started cruising toward the register.

At this point I should introduce Cashier Guy, whom I will call Rosco. Rosco is not on his way to assistant associate managing coordinator any time soon, if you know what I mean. You see, Ms. Frostcrag still had items in her cart that she was attempting to put on the conveyor belt. A lot of items. Like all her items.

Meanwhile, Rosco doesn’t turn off the belt, so now I have to awkwardly reach down to the register and pull my items back toward my end to give the nice lady some room.

Rosco seems confused. Apparently, seeing items moving backwards on his conveyor belt must have been too much for poor Rosco - and I guess the fact that my items made it so far down the belt must have broken the thin dividing line between Those Are His Items and Those Are Her Items. Because he turned the conveyor back on.

*Vrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrhm … *

My stuff starts leaving again. Rosco doesn’t turn the belt off. Rosco is apparently dumber than a sack of hammers.

Ms. Frostcrag attempts to help. “Put a divider up,” she orders. However, I realize that if I put the dividing thingie in place, the belt would just stop when it got to the divider instead of when it got to my can of lentils. A lot of good that would do.

So, I prioritize. Step one, I will slide my stuff back up the belt a SECOND TIME. Step two, I will implement the divider, to satisfy Ms. Frostcrag, who is the type of lady that I could imagine flipping out rather easily and maybe suing Kroger for emotional damages, or whatever it is that rich people do when they use their richness as leverage.

But no! Rosco! You’re grabbing the Shiner! Put it down! Put it -

“THAT’S NOT MINE. What are you doing?” Ms. Frostcrag is now unhappy.

Rosco: “I’m just putting it up here.” That’s what Rosco does when somebody buys beer, puts it to the side. Except it’s not her beer. Maybe Rosco realizes that. Who knows. I’m busy sliding my soup back up the (temporarily halted) conveyor belt. I then foolishly transfer more food frome my cart.

Vrrrrrrrrrrrrrhm …

You’ve got to be kidding me.

This time, I form a giant food-hug with my arms and hold back the whole pile. Ironically, I forget to grab the divider and there it goes, back to the register.

Finally, Frostcrag flips. “No! [vrrrrr…] No! […rrrrrrrhm] TURN IT OFF!”

Apparently “NO” was too vague, but Rosco shows himself capable of responding to more direct basic commands. The accursed conveyor belt stops. I cautiously release my poor food and turn to empty the rest of my cart.

A few seconds later: “FINE! I’ll pick up my OWN pen!”

I turn around and Ms. Frostcrag is leaning over picking up a pen from the floor. Now, this one I can’t figure out. Was she yelling at me? I had tried so hard to stay out of the way. She may have given me a dirty look, but if so, I didn’t notice; I was busy trying to figure out which of the the following events had transpired:

• She was yelling at Rosco, because she expected him to lumber around (oh yeah, forgot to mention, he was fat) the entire checkout area and pick up her pen.
• She was yelling at me, because she expected me to have an automatically servile attitude toward her every need, and also to have superhuman pen-sensing abilities.
• She wanted to have SOMETHING to vent about, so when the pen hit the floor, she unleashed an outburst that, while not logically sensical in any way, probably felt pretty good.

I’m going with option 3. It really doesn’t matter to me. I did my best to stay out of the way. Ms. Frostcrag then disappeared in a puff of smoke, and my checkout process went smoothly enough. I wish Rosco the best. Poor guy needs to do some studying.