The Bagger
John bagged groceries at RightFresh Foods, where rich women came to shop and complain about poor service.
“You smushed my bread,” a fat woman said.
John had put the sourdough loaf at the bottom of the paper bag, and set several cans of baked beans on top of it.
“Sorry,” he mumbled.
“And you put the soap in with the meat. Now the chicken is going to taste all soapy. Why don't you pay attention to what your doing?”
“I'm bagging groceries—that's pretty depressing. If I thought about what I was doing, I'd probably kill myself.”
“The other baggers are happy. They don't have your sour attitude.””
“That's because they're retarded.”
There was a collective gasp that included the fat woman, the other women in line, and the clerk. Only the other baggers, who were mentally retarded (but in a politically correct way), kept going as they were, loping around with happy grins painted across their faces.
“I want to speak to your manager,” the fat lady demanded.
John's manager soon arrived at the check-out aisle. He had a short-sleeve shirt, neck tie, and a name tag that said “Dave.”
“...and he made my meat all soapy,” the fat woman said, concluding her list of complaints against the bagger.
Manager Dave shook his head slowly. “This isn't the first time we've had these complaints,” he said. “But it's going to be the last. John, you're fired. Turn in your uniform.”
John tore off his uniform—a red apron that had faded to pink from repeated washings—and threw it at the manager's chest.
Manager Dave pointed to the door.
“Go,” he said. “Get out.”
But John didn't just meekly walk out the door. Before he left, there was one more thing he had to bag. Himself.
He flapped open a paper bag and dropped it on the counter. He kicked off his shoes (he didn't want his shoes to rip a hole in the paper bag) and climbed up on the counter.
“Get down and put on your shoes and get out of the store!” the Manager screamed.
John ignored him. He held the paper bag by its sides and stepped inside, like he was putting on a pair of pants. Then he stepped in with the other foot. The brown paper bag only came up to his knees; there was no way he could fit his whole body inside. He was simply too big to be bagged.
But many things were too big to be bagged, such as 24 packs of soda and large bags of dog food. These oversize items were set bagless on the undercarriage of the shopping cart, and brought out to the customer's car.
John stepped out of the bag and hopped down from the counter. He slid head-first on his belly into the empty undercarriage of the large woman's shopping cart.
“Get him out of my cart!” the fat woman screamed.
John put his arms out to the side and pushed himself along, out the automatic sliding doors and into the parking lot.
“Stop him!” the fat woman screamed. “That's kidnapping!
“At least it would be if there was a baby in the baby seat,” she added.
John kicked at the ground to propel himself forward. The hard concrete ripped his socks and tore at the soles of his feet. He had forgotten his shoes inside the grocery store, but he couldn't go back and get them now. They might arrest him for attempted kidnapping. How could he prove he knew there was no baby in the shopping cart's child safety seat?
John rolled out of the parking lot and down the road. The cement zoomed by just inches from his face. Now he knew how snakes felt, slithering around on their bellies.
He never came back to the RightFresh Foods. He just rolled around in the undercarriage of the shopping cart, collecting glass bottles and aluminum cans. When the shopping cart was full, he brought the bottles and cans to the recycling center, where he exchanged them for cash. Never again did he have another job or another pair of shoes.
February 7, 2009
Highland Park, Illinois
USA
“You smushed my bread,” a fat woman said.
John had put the sourdough loaf at the bottom of the paper bag, and set several cans of baked beans on top of it.
“Sorry,” he mumbled.
“And you put the soap in with the meat. Now the chicken is going to taste all soapy. Why don't you pay attention to what your doing?”
“I'm bagging groceries—that's pretty depressing. If I thought about what I was doing, I'd probably kill myself.”
“The other baggers are happy. They don't have your sour attitude.””
“That's because they're retarded.”
There was a collective gasp that included the fat woman, the other women in line, and the clerk. Only the other baggers, who were mentally retarded (but in a politically correct way), kept going as they were, loping around with happy grins painted across their faces.
“I want to speak to your manager,” the fat lady demanded.
John's manager soon arrived at the check-out aisle. He had a short-sleeve shirt, neck tie, and a name tag that said “Dave.”
“...and he made my meat all soapy,” the fat woman said, concluding her list of complaints against the bagger.
Manager Dave shook his head slowly. “This isn't the first time we've had these complaints,” he said. “But it's going to be the last. John, you're fired. Turn in your uniform.”
John tore off his uniform—a red apron that had faded to pink from repeated washings—and threw it at the manager's chest.
Manager Dave pointed to the door.
“Go,” he said. “Get out.”
But John didn't just meekly walk out the door. Before he left, there was one more thing he had to bag. Himself.
He flapped open a paper bag and dropped it on the counter. He kicked off his shoes (he didn't want his shoes to rip a hole in the paper bag) and climbed up on the counter.
“Get down and put on your shoes and get out of the store!” the Manager screamed.
John ignored him. He held the paper bag by its sides and stepped inside, like he was putting on a pair of pants. Then he stepped in with the other foot. The brown paper bag only came up to his knees; there was no way he could fit his whole body inside. He was simply too big to be bagged.
But many things were too big to be bagged, such as 24 packs of soda and large bags of dog food. These oversize items were set bagless on the undercarriage of the shopping cart, and brought out to the customer's car.
John stepped out of the bag and hopped down from the counter. He slid head-first on his belly into the empty undercarriage of the large woman's shopping cart.
“Get him out of my cart!” the fat woman screamed.
John put his arms out to the side and pushed himself along, out the automatic sliding doors and into the parking lot.
“Stop him!” the fat woman screamed. “That's kidnapping!
“At least it would be if there was a baby in the baby seat,” she added.
John kicked at the ground to propel himself forward. The hard concrete ripped his socks and tore at the soles of his feet. He had forgotten his shoes inside the grocery store, but he couldn't go back and get them now. They might arrest him for attempted kidnapping. How could he prove he knew there was no baby in the shopping cart's child safety seat?
John rolled out of the parking lot and down the road. The cement zoomed by just inches from his face. Now he knew how snakes felt, slithering around on their bellies.
He never came back to the RightFresh Foods. He just rolled around in the undercarriage of the shopping cart, collecting glass bottles and aluminum cans. When the shopping cart was full, he brought the bottles and cans to the recycling center, where he exchanged them for cash. Never again did he have another job or another pair of shoes.
February 7, 2009
Highland Park, Illinois
USA
posted by Benjamin Fishbein at Sunday, February 08, 2009
2 comments
