Spitball Army

When I go to the Winn-Dixie, I like to go through the self-checkout line and choose Spanish instead of English. The lady’s recorded voice speaks very clear and proper Spanish which, somehow, is quite soothing to me (perhaps it’s the California upbringing I had, or just the chili I had for lunch that day). Her voice also seems to be recorded much louder than the English-speaking lady’s. This gets noticed; I don’t mind. Tonight, it was just me, the young black woman standing nearby as an attendant in case someone needed help, and the Spanish-speaking lady inside the box. “QUATTRO DOLLARES Y CINCO CENTAVOS!” and on and on she bellowed, creating a spicy echo across the front of the supermarket. The attendant stood at her post, staring at what she was hearing. “Do you know Spanish?” she asked me when I was through. “Enough,” I answered, then added, “I’m guessing you don’t hear that very often, the Spanish.” “Never,” she said. Meanwhile, the Spanish-speaking lady’s voice was repeating her urgent command for me to remove my items from the bagging area, en espanol y con fuerza. She’s a pushy one, but, you know, in a soothing way.