Clean Up On Aisle Five
written by: Charles R. Bucklin
“That will be eighteen dollars and fifty-two cents,” said Dot, the cashier at Alpha Beta grocery market. “Would you also like a bag?”
“I certainly would,” sniffed the pear-shaped woman wearing a red wig that would have shamed Lucille Ball from I Love Lucy with its scarlet hue.
“Charles? Charlie? Goddammit…CHUUUUUCKKKK!”
“WHAT NOW?…Geez!” I said a few check-out stands down the line.
It was a hot miserable day and I sweating my tail off in the store. The air conditioning was busted and the store was crowded with afternoon shoppers. My Windsor knotted tie felt like a hangman’s noose around my neck leaving me perpetually red-faced and often panting for breath.
My plastic name tag said my name was ‘Chuck,’ and my official job title was Alpha Beta Market employee but in reality, I was just – ‘The Bag Boy.’
I hated my job but back in the 1970’s there weren’t a lot of high-paying jobs for eighteen-year-old kids.
“At least I don’t have to wash dishes,” I thought while gazing at the Carrows Restaurant across the street from the market.
“Chuck, please bag this lady’s groceries and take them to her car,” said Dot glaring at me.
“Okay, no problemo, Dot,” I said as I began to put the groceries into brown paper bags.
“Am I supposed to tip him or somethin’?” said the woman scratching her bottom.
“No,” said Dot. “It’s his job. Hurry up kid, Marge needs assistance at checkout number three, so make it snappy.”
“Yeah, yeah okay,” I said.
A couple of minutes later I was pushing a shopping cart behind the odious woman as she slow walked to her car.
She must have had a gas problem or some kind of intestinal distress as she would occasionally pause, look around the parking lot, and then fart like an automobile backfiring.
If the store was warm, the damn parking area was even worse as it felt like the temperature outside was pushing ninety degrees.
“I think my car is parked somewhere over there,” said the woman waving vaguely over toward the southern portion of our huge parking lot.
“Yes, Mam,” I said.
“Excuse me,” she said, pausing to fart again loudly. “Damn, I shouldn’t have eaten at that damn Taco Bell again. It always gives me gas. Stay away from Mexican food kid, the shit will kill you.”
“Yeth, oday,” I gagged, attempting to not breathe through my nose.
By the time the woman finally located her Ford Pinto car, I was soaking wet with perspiration making me look like a disheveled cross between David Cassidy from the Partridge Family and Bozo the Clown.
***
There’s a trick to bagging groceries that you learn very quickly while working as a Bagger at the market.
Heavy shit goes on the bottom of the bag – this would include can goods, packaged meats, etc. The lighter items such as bread, fruits that bruise, and other fragile stuff like eggs, chips, or crackers are loaded towards the top.
Trust me it ain’t as easy as it sounds when you’re in a rush.
Badly loaded grocery bags can tip over, bags can rip, milk or juice can get spilled and bread or the more delicate items can get smashed to an unpalatable pulp.
Sooo how’d I do during my first week on the job?
Uhh…not so good.
In my first attempt at bagging groceries, I ended up hitting an elderly gent in his balls with an oversized can of Starkist Tuna. In my nervousness, the can slipped from my hand, and BANG! over he went clutching his nuts.
Albert, the Store Manager promptly apologized and gave him a complimentary bag of frozen peas which he held to his bruised testicles before stalking out.
Probably never to return.
Often, I got yelled at for spending too much time in the employee bathroom combing my hair and as punishment, I was taken off the line and made to clean up spills and breakage on various aisles in the store.
The shit got real one day when I did figure eights in one of the shopping carts in the parking lot and rammed a Lincoln Town Car. The car wasn’t damaged too badly (barely made a scratch!) because back then cars were built like armored tanks, but it made a hell of a lot of racket and the owner threatened to sue the store.
Man, I got my ass chewed out a lot during my first week on the job.
***
Manuel ‘Manny’ Gonzalez was a former Co-Captain of Farmstead’s High School football team. He was well-liked and while attending school was in the popular jock clique.
Manny had a dark complexion with jet black hair and despite being short he was quick and agile on the playing field. During the games, you could always count on him to run the ball and score a touchdown.
Anyway, he was always smiling and cracking jokes and he was one of the guys I worked with at Alpha Beta.
He had the enviable job of being a cashier but more often than not he helped Albert stock the shelves – so I ended up assisting him in the various responsibilities that came with making sure the market ran smoothly.
One late afternoon, Albert told me to help Manny out back by the store’s dumpsters. Which was a welcome relief, as any excuse to get off the line meant I could slack for a bit and not get hollered at.
Going to the back I saw that Manny had a bunch of shopping carts filled with bread and baked goods.
“Chuck, I need ya to help me get rid of this bread and stuff,” he said.
“They look okay to me. But what do you want me to do?” I said.
“Yeah, they probably still taste good too. But it’s the Store policy to dispose of all expired items. So slit the bread packages with this exacto knife and toss the shit into the dumpster,” he said.
“Do we really need to throw this stuff away?” I said.
“Yep, now let’s get started, or else Albert is gonna get pissed off,” he said.
So, we went to work cutting and tossing bread packages into the trash.
There was a lot of bread and baked goods to dispose of so it took about twenty minutes to do the job. As the garbage dumpster got slowly filled, I got this sickening feeling in the pit of my stomach.
Soon the air was filled with a yeasty smell as a large pile of bread lay exposed and baking in the hot sun. Looking down at the dumpster I felt ill. This bread could have fed a lot of hungry people and here we were just throwin’ it away like it was trash.
I told Manny I had to go back to the front of the store but that was just a made-up bullshit excuse to get the hell out of there.
Ya know, that memory still haunts me to this day. And from that day onward I do my best to never waste any food if I can help it.
***
Sometimes folks wanted to chat when I pushed their grocery shopping carts to their cars out in the parking lot. I guess they were lonely and just wanted to talk to somebody.
“So what’s your name kid?” said an older gent as I helped him load his groceries into the trunk of his 1965 Pontiac Bonneville.
“Chuck,” I said.
“You don’t look like a ‘Chuck,’ he said, peering at me with rheumy eyes, as he watched me unload his shopping cart.
“Well, okay. My name is Charles but I go by Chuck,” I said.
“Ya know, my brother’s name was ‘Chuck’ and he looked like Boris Karloff. Had a face like a worn leather glove too. He passed on a few years back.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“They’re all dead now.”
“Who died?”
“My brother, then my wife, and all my friends. People die and everything changes,” he said with a sigh.
“Oh, yeah?” I said, wondering where this depressing conversation was headed.
“Take this street for example. My Pop used to ride a horse-drawn milk cart up and down this road delivering milk and butter to the few homes that were here. Now look at it – what a mess,” he said pointing to the busy intersection with his cane.
“I guess things change as you get older, Mister,” I said, closing his trunk.
“Do you know why they call this town Sunnyvale?” said the old-timer.
“Can’t say I do,” I said, as I began pushing his shopping cart back to the market.
“Cause the name ‘Hell’ was already taken,” he said with a laugh.
***
Okay, bagging groceries was a Union Job while I worked at Alpha Beta Grocery. But to be honest it didn’t pay much – not considering how much work I did and the amount of crap I got.
I sweated my ass off and was treated as an indentured servant. Hell, I felt like should be wearing a loin cloth and carrying an oversized ostrich feather when working at the store.
My salary was a whopping one dollar and sixty-five cents an hour which after taxes and Union Dues resulted in almost nothing come payday.
I was told I was being paid a great hourly wage and if I didn’t like it – tough! Talk to my Union representative. (A mysterious person who was never identified).
Since I needed the money, I hung in there for eight months before requesting a raise.
“Hey Albert, can I get a raise?” I said to the store manager before starting my shift one early afternoon.
“No,” he said.
“But I heard Manny and Dot just got one – how come you can’t give me one?”
“They’re cashiers. The Union negotiated a higher salary for them,” he said.
“Look,” I said “I want a raise, and unless you give me one…I’m gonna quit.”
“Wait here and I’ll go into my office and see what I can do,” he said.
Albert left me hanging for a few minutes while I waited outside his office door.
“Man, I showed him alright,” I thought as I inwardly celebrated my tough negotiating skills. “I bet he’s gonna give me a fifty cent…Nah, I bet it’ll be a buck raise.”
Albert, at that point, emerged from his office carrying a bank check.
“Here’s your final paycheck. Thank you for working at Alpha Beta,” he said handing me a check for two weeks’ work.
“But…but…,” I said.
“Don’t forget to turn in your apron and name tag before leaving,” he said before walking away.
Well, fuck me.
Clutching my minuscule of twenty-seven dollars and a seventeen-cent paycheck in my hands I looked at the newly built Carrows Restaurant across the street.
With a heartfelt sigh, I combed my hair with my fingers, straightened my tie, and walked on over.
Maybe they could use a dishwasher.
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