The Woman in the Self-Checkout Lane (A Short Story)
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| Image courtesy of Alexas_Fotos via Pixabay |
The grocery store three blocks from my house had been family
owned since at least a decade before I was born. That recently changed, however,
after the original owner retired and his son decided to sell a couple years
later due to health issues.
Now, the store is owned by some corporation out of
California. Sure, they claim nothing has changed other than the name but there
are plenty of not-so-subtle differences whenever I stop there on the way home
from work. The produce department, for example, is smaller with less of a
selection. Meanwhile, my pizza rolls are in the freezer that used to contain
chicken nuggets, and the chicken nuggets seem to be relocated once per week.
The most noticeable difference though is at the front of the
store, where even during the busiest times of the day (like when I shop), there
is usually just one cashier working. I don’t know if it is by choice, as a way
of cutting costs in these uncertain economic times, or the result of an
employee exodus following the ownership change. All I do know is there is
usually a line.
Unless, of course, you want to use the self-checkout lanes.
That was the decision I reluctantly needed to make this past
Thursday. While I’m not opposed to using a machine to purchase my groceries, I
only find it convenient when I have just a couple items. On this shopping trip,
I had a full cart.
In fact, I spent about a minute casually pushing my cart up
and down a couple aisles, waiting to see if the line of customers would shrink
before finally making my decision. As much as I hated the bending and twisting
that would be involved, it had been a long day at work, I just wanted to go home,
and all four machines were open with no waiting.
While not as slow as it would have been standing in line,
scanning each individual item in my cart seemed to take an eternity. Some
places allow you to scan multiple items at a time, speeding the process up.
This store’s machines weren’t that advanced. I had to scan, place the item in
the bag and wait for the register to confirm I did so before I could scan the
next. It was so mundane, thoughts of just walking out without paying popped
into my head, though they weren’t something I’d ever act on, especially with the
watchful attendant only a few feet away (when she could have just as easily
been running one of the other registers).
Finally, with the last item in my bag, I fished out my
wallet and, after scanning my rewards card (earning me 15 cents off), paid for
my groceries. It wasn’t until I retrieved the bags and turned to put them in my
cart that I realized I wasn’t alone.
Standing behind me, not even three feet away, was a woman
holding a loaf of bread. She was an older lady, I didn’t try to guess what age,
with shoulder-length hair that was dyed brown but had streaks of silver,
various wrinkles on her cheeks and thick bifocals over her hazel eyes.
Her presence both startled and annoyed me. After spending
months in lockdown mode during the pandemic, I still have social distancing
boundaries that she was clearly breaking while waiting to use the same
self-checkout I was at. She was also doing that despite the three other
machines still being free.
At first, I was going to remind her, in not so polite terms,
of the importance of personal space. However, I stopped myself and forced a
polite “excuse me” instead because there was just something about her demeanor
that told me it was the right thing to do.
The woman’s outfit, a dark blue polo shirt with khaki slacks
that was clearly a work uniform even without the nametag that read “Nancy,” was
disheveled and untucked. Plus, while it’s a bit hard to explain, those hazel
eyes looked weary and very sad. I was upset and confused about why she was
standing directly behind me when she could have already paid for her item at
any of the other registers but am also too good of a person to pile on when
someone was already having a bad day.
As I walked away, I looked back and saw Nancy standing at
the register I had just vacated. She was still holding her loaf of bread and
staring at the screen, and I confirmed to myself I had done the right thing by
keeping my mouth shut.
My story should have ended there, with a random encounter at
a grocery store self-checkout register that normally would be forgotten by the
time I got home. However, something about Nancy stuck inside my brain and as I
drove the rest of the way to my house, I kept replaying the incident over and
over in my head because there was just something about it that didn’t seem
right.
Specifically, I kept asking myself “why” and came up with multiple
scenarios in my head. Some were logical and understanding. Perhaps she was just
one of those people who need to do things a certain way each time. For example,
I once had a co-worker who had a favorite bathroom stall and would refuse to use
any of the others if that one wasn’t available. Maybe Nancy needed to use that
register for the same unexplainable reason.
Some of those thoughts weren’t so kind though. After
describing the incident to my wife, I jokingly suggested Nancy was confused,
thought she was at a casino and the register was a slot machine. She was
standing in line behind me, hoping to swoop in and get the big payday.
Yet, despite those explanations and jokes, Nancy still
nagged at me well into that evening. Even as I crawled into bed that night and
gave my wife a kiss on the cheek, I remained both fixated and distracted by the
event. I had a checklist of every detail, and I was reviewing it over and over
in my head because it felt like I was missing something important.
There was the way she came up behind me without making a
sound. I hadn’t even known she was there until I turned to put the bags in my
cart. There was weariness and sadness in her eyes and the way her uniform had
been untucked. Then, of course, there was the name tag that let me know her
name was Nancy, which had been pinned on the left side of her dark blue shirt,
opposite the white logo.
And that’s when I shot up into a sitting position in bed,
surprisingly not waking my now-asleep wife. I had figured out what had been
bothering me about the incident.
It was the logo.
Much like the grocery store I referenced, Leonard’s had been
a fixture in the community for decades as well. However, unlike the grocery
store, the bar & grill is no longer a bar & grill. It’s a vacant
building downtown and has been for five years.
So, why was Nancy wearing the uniform?
Suddenly, a faint memory popped into my head, and I got
chills. An hour later, as I sat at the kitchen table with my laptop, those
chills turned into an uncontrollable shiver.
Staring back at me on my computer screen was a photo of Nancy.
It was taken when she was slightly younger, and she had a happy smile.
The photo was attached to her obituary.
The obituary, printed seven years ago, didn’t answer many
questions for me. It just described Nancy as a mother of three and grandmother
of eight who was 71 years old and semi-retired though she still worked
part-time at Leonard’s as a bartender and hostess. The details surrounding her
death were left out, other than it was described as sudden.
It took me another hour, well past midnight, and a credit
card to get past the paywall on our local newspaper’s website, to confirm the
faint memory that had compelled me to get out of bed. It was an article, maybe better
described as a blurb, about a 71-year-old woman having a heart attack and dying
while in the self-checkout lane at a local business. It didn’t give the woman’s
name or say which business, but it wasn’t difficult to connect that story to
the obituary I had just read.
It took me another 90 minutes to calm my nerves enough to finally return to my bed.
Surprisingly, I had no problem falling asleep soon after because my emotionally
drained mind was no longer keeping me awake.
I still find myself with questions about Nancy and why she remains
in that self-checkout lane. Clearly, she has some unfinished business, I just
don’t know if it is related to her not being able to buy that loaf of bread
before she died or if there is something more sinister, she wants to bring
attention to.
It is, however, a mystery I am choosing not to try to solve.
While I have empathy for Nancy’s restless spirit, I just don’t know if my already-shaken
nerves can handle any more. It’s only a matter of time before Nancy reveals
herself to another shopper (if she hasn’t already) and maybe they’ll help her
finally find peace.
In the meantime, I am choosing to do my grocery shopping at
the store on the other end of town. It’s not as convenient of a location and a
bit more expensive. However, they also haven’t installed self-checkout lanes
yet either.
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