The Boy in the Grocery Store

No one ever gives cashiers enough credit.

Photo by Jason Dent on Unsplash

I know you hate your job. I can see it in the way your forehead puckers as you concentrate on ringing up items for an old woman who already has her coupons at the ready.

When it’s our turn in line, I try to avoid your look as I push my mother’s wheelchair forward and start placing things from our basket onto the conveyor belt.

I don’t want you to look at me, and I don’t want to see pity in those eyes of yours.

To you, this is just a job to get you through school. I would have had one of those too, if things had been different. Instead, I’m entering my twenties with a burden on my back and no one to tell a thing about it.

My father’s apathy doesn’t matter. He’s sitting in the car, just waiting, while I slowly make my way through the store to get the few things we can afford.

My mother’s frustration is a constant. You can probably hear it in the way she mumbles a hello as you put on your customer-service smile to greet us.

The truth is that all of this could have been avoided, but it’s too late for that now. The deeds are done, and the sins have been rewarded in pain.

Somehow, I got all caught up in the middle of it — like a fly slowly being…