Spitball Army

Contestant #1:  Wal-Mart returns desk clerk

I arrive in line and there are three people ahead of me.  The second person in line is a woman returning food.  I kid you not.  FOOD!  She is cradling a plastic basket in one arm and a baby in the other arm.  I can see that the basket contains several items, including Pop Tarts, baby socks, and those unnaturally orange cheese crackers.  The baby leans over and drools on the crackers.  I strike up a conversation with the woman in front of me, who is friendly, funny and warm.  She recognizes a woman behind us, standing at the check-out counter, and offers me her place in line.  I am now in line behind the food woman.  Her baby begins to drool on the Pop Tarts.

Eventually, it is my turn at the front of the line.  I hand the clerk my item and receipt as I say, “Hi, how are you?”

She doesn’t reply.  She looks at my item.  She looks at my receipt.  She sighs.  She doesn’t look at me.  She sets the item down, turns around, and puts the prior customer’s soggy crackers and Pop Tarts in a shopping basket with two dozen sundry items that have been returned by others.  This done, she walks to the end of the counter, grabs a bottle of soda from beneath the countertop, and takes a long, slow drink from it.  She then looks at the clock on the wall and sighs.  Worn out from her travelling, she then slowly trods back to her position opposite me.  There are now nine people behind me in line.

She picks up the telephone and makes a call.  “Mret shef any owen klite!” she says into the phone.  Almost immediately, a short woman shoots around the counter from behind me, looking official.  She walks over to the clerk, looks at the item, looks at the receipt, doesn’t look at me.  She grunts at the clerk and leaves us.

The clerk begins typing on the register, holding the receipt in one hand.

“Will you need to see the credit card that I made that purchase with?” I ask her.  She glances up at me without moving her head, showing the whites of her eyes, and continues typing.  Unlike the other employees loitering nearby, she doesn’t have a name tag, and is wearing a t-shirt with food stains that begin about six inches below her chin and continue to where her navel might be.  She says nothing and looks back at the screen.

A co-worker saunters up to us.  I say Hello.  The co-worker smiles, briefly.  The co-worker lifts the item, looks at the barcode on the bottom, looks at the receipt.  She sets the item down and pats the top of the box.  There, there, good item.  She walks away, saying nothing.

The clerk finishes typing.  She scans the barcode on the box.  She pulls a pen from her back pocket and scribbles on the receipt.  She hands me the old receipt, along with a new credit receipt, by folding them together and thrusting them toward me in her hand.  She doesn’t look at me.  As I reach for the receipts, the clerk hollers “Next!” startling me slightly.  I take one last look at her, offering a final opportunity for eye contact, and notice that she is checking the time on the clock on the wall.