As I came into the parking lot of the health food store where I work, I saw there was a small bus parked there. I sighed and shook my head. It looked like piranha Sunday, the day when large groups of elderly people with heavy accents mob the store. I snuck around the back and into the warehouse, not wanting to draw the attention of the mob. I don't mean to be hard on them, they're very nice people, it's just that I don't get paid for helping them.
I went into the back room where I work with bulk goods. It's a nice place, a quiet haven in a busy store. I bagged a box of whole wheat rotini, then labeled the bags and put them back in the box. Unfortunately, I was left with three bags. This is usually not a problem; I just take the extra bags out into the store and put them on the shelf. I glanced out a small window into the store, and saw no one. Picking up the extra bags, I headed into the main store. As soon as I opened the door I knew I was doomed, the mob was there in full force. I tried to walk the 20 feet to the pasta shelves without drawing attention, and failed. Actually, I didn't just fail, I failed miserably. An old man stopped me and asked me about a small box. "Fat dis men?" he asked. I stared at the box, hoping it would give me some clue. "I'm sorry, I didn't understand you" I said. He stared at me with a resolute determination. There is a common human idea that crosses cultural and ethnic boundaries; if they don't understand, say it louder. "FWAT DES MEEN?" he asked, emphasizing each word by tapping his finger on the box. I thought, and then finally it dawned on me. "Oh!" I said, and looked at the box. It seemed rather self explanatory. It was a box of herbal cough drops. I tried to figure out what I could explain that hadn't already been said. I took that chance that he might not be able to read English and told him they were herbal cough drops. He threw his hands up in the air. Finally a man who could speak his language came over and solved the problem, which apparently was a misunderstanding of the word "herbal".
I continued on my great journey, bravely attempting to walk the remaining 16 feet to the shelves. "Excuse me." said an elderly woman. "Do you have parsley flakes?" I had heard these words of doom before, it seemed that every time a bus load of people came we ran out of parsley flakes. "It looks like we have run out" I said, glancing at the shelves. "I can go bag some for you if you like" I said. Usually the script goes this way:
Employee; I'm sorry, we're out, but I can bag some for you if you like.
Customer: No, that's ok, I'll come back later (or) No, that's ok, I'll just buy it from _______.
But these are not normal customers. These are angry customers. These are people who have just spent 5 hours on a bus (no joke). They want good deals, they want happy service, and they want it NOW. I sometimes wonder why someone who takes a 5 hour bus ride to get to a health food store should want quick service, but to each his own. Following the alternate script, she said "You bet you will bag me some! You will bag some right now!" I smiled. Whenever someone who thinks they are paying for my time gets mad I think it's funny, especially if they aren't paying for my time. I returned to my bagging room, rotini in hand, and bagged the parsley. I took an armload of the small herb bags out into the store, and was instantly mobbed. Old ladies appeared from everywhere, and began pawing through my armload of bags. On of them picked up a bag, looked at the price, and put it back down. She selected two smaller bags instead, and appeared quite pleased. "They're by the pound" I said. "It’s cheaper if you get a big one instead of getting two smaller ones, because then you aren't paying for the weight of the bags." She looked at me as if I was stupid. "I rode 5 hours to come here!" she said. "You expect me to pay that high price?" I shook my head. She had missed the point entirely, and paid exactly 17 cents for bags, but the customer is always right.
My armload of bags gone, I set out for the pasta shelves once more. I walked a record ten feet before I was stopped again. "I'm looking for vege-meat." said a middle aged man. I thought of the warehouse behind the door. It was stacked floor to ceiling with vege-meat of all possible descriptions; dozens of brands, hundreds of products. "Can you describe it?" I asked. "Well, it came in a box, not a can." Again I thought of the warehouse behind me. I was forced to agree with him. Indeed, it did come in a box. There might be cans inside the box, but it came in a box. I was able to exercise my psychic powers because all the vege-meat came in boxes. "Can you describe the box a little?" I asked, trying to sound like the kind of person that can identify every product just by glancing at the barcode. "Well," he began again. "It's a box kind of box, very much like a box and not like a can." There was a moment of uncomfortable silence. Oh, never mind, I'll come back later" he said.
I turned. As if in a dream, I saw the pasta shelf appear before my eyes. Stretching my arm out to it, I placed the bags of rotini in their correct slot. I tear rolled down my cheek, and triumphant music played.
Then I turned, smashed the speaker from which the triumphant music was blaring, and began the return journey.