Say It Like You Mean It

We had made a quick run to the closest grocery store and were now next in the checkout line behind a large woman on a small shopping scooter.The cashier had a voice that registered somewhere between Minnie Mouse and Mariah Carey, on helium, I know , redundant, right and she wore big silver bows at her throat, despite the lack of a holiday to explain the forced fun jugular festivities. Beyond my first glance, I was busy unloading our groceries from the cart.

I looked up when the cashier finished the transaction with the woman in the electric shopping cart by leaning over, making a show of the single penny held between her index finger and thumb, telling the woman, 

“And here's a penny, now you can ride the pony when she’s done”, the cashier said, motioning to the child on one of those old nickel operated rocking horses near the exit.

“Wow, okay,” I thought to myself,

“Either she knows something about this customer that I don't or that was some strange, mean shit to say to this woman, who, for whatever reason can't stand,” and I silently prayed that she didn't say something stupid like that to me or my spouse. 

She reached for the first item to scan. Disregarding my trepidation, I asked, “How are you?” She continued scanning without looking up, as I bagged our items.

“You don't really wanna know,” she said.

“Actually, I do or I wouldn't have asked but you still have the option of not saying.”

And then she not only looked up, but briefly, she looked at me, as her eyes filled with tears

“It's okay,” I said.

“Is there anything I can do to help right now?”

"No,” she said. “There's just so much to do and I’m stuck here.”

I told her I’d done exactly this kind of work of before so I did understand. 

There was no break, no relief, no understanding coming. I didn't really know what I could do that would matter at all in these last remaining seconds before our transaction was over, so I reached into my pocket, and to my own surprise, handed her the three inch mica-flecked worry stone I’d carried for the last year or so, making the same tired joke I’ve made a hundred times before, telling her, 

“I rub this worry stone till I can remember the Rock of Ages.

Earlier this week, this thing was the size of canned ham.”

She took the small rock from my hand, slipped into her own pocket and didn't quite smile. Neither did I, not quite.

She handed my spouse our change and said, “Have a good night.”

I think she meant it.

-pdk