"You know what I'm saying?"
"Mm-hmm." Bumble Bee Chunk Light Tuna, 10/$10. GoLean. Gatorate Frost High Tide. Tide Coldwater Glacier Scent. Last week's InTouch. Sheila pushed a cart full of groceries around the nearly-empty store, putting back what customers had earlier picked up, considered, discarded.
"It's not my fault we got a 6.8 shop score. Hell, if he got off his ass once in awhile and did the register or inventory, this whole store would be 10s every time." Tony slouched over the conveyor belt at his register, chewing on a toothpick. "I always greet. Shit, 6.8."
O Organics Whole Tomatoes, 16-oz can. Stacked neatly, labels forward. Barilla linguine, 1-lb bag. Pupperoni.
"We got union representation here. Marcel can't move my shifts around without a process. Being. Followed. Sheila, you know what I'm saying? A process."
Outside the fog swirled around the streetcar humming up the avenue.
"Would I threaten to kill somebody on the sales floor?"
The go-backs clerk kept on walking.
3 comments:
Ah, bones, you bring back tasty, sad memories of my job at the grocery store...
I'm still not too sure about the red text, but that was what I overheard when I walked into the Taraval St Safeway early one morning.
I didn't hear the answer, though I assume it would be a yes.
I would keep on walking, too. I dig it.
Post a Comment