HUMAN WRECKAGE

Latent Old Man Surfaces in Grocery Store

The last time I saw my father Stephen alive and relatively robust on his home turf of Ottawa was about 15 years ago, a sloppy early spring. My visit was supervised by his wife; under no circumstances was I permitted to take Dad to his preferred local, the Clocktower Pub. (Following my father’s funeral in 2014 Ann and I, along with my sister Anne and her husband Al, gathered there for a pint.) Well, didn’t Dad’s old air force comrade telephone to suggest lunch. Like my father, Mr. Young had served in the RCAF 409 Night Hawks squadron; he too had been a navigator in a Mosquito fighter. My stepmother was beyond displeased and I was very relieved that none of it was my doing.

I put on my coat, a barn jacket from L.L. Bean, sort of a neutral canvas with brown corduroy collar and cuffs. Dad put on the exact same coat, probably the same size too. Mr. Young arrived at the Clocktower when we did; he was wearing the same coat. Mr. Young laughed. “Still in uniform, eh, Steve?” He nodded approvingly at mine. “You must be a close relation.”

Ann and I spent almost a month in 2019 kicking around England with my sister and her husband. I bought a Harris Tweed “newsboy” cap in York. I’d always wanted one. But, not being a Brit I felt I had to be of a certain age to carry it off. I experienced some mixed emotions transacting my purchase, but any phantom buyer’s remorse has eased with the care of time.

Thusly attired for Edmonton’s weather, I accompanied Ann to the grocery store last week. With my tartan scarf casually draped around my neck I figured I’d cut a dashing figure at a Seniors’ Mingle. Turkeys were on sale at Save-On-Foods and we had points on our Save-On card and a coupon too. Our mission was our least costly Christmas bird in nearly a decade. Grocery shopping, should you actually do your own in a familiar store, is a lot like Sesame Street: “These are the people in your neighbourhood.”

Save-On had a cashier named Jacqueline whose till I’d do anything to avoid. Her obesity exhibited in a most peculiar way, the bottom half of an hour glass running slow. She supported herself by leaning against the conveyor belt. She was cringingly curious about every item to be scanned and unafraid to ask awkward questions. “What’s this ointment for? It’s expensive.” She’s long since retired and (I never thought I’d type this), I miss her. She, imperfect at her job as she was, was at least human.

Like most Canadians these days, Ann and I did not have a bunch of stuff in our cart. My front of the store survey was disheartening though, one of six human tills open, and a traffic jam at the five self-checkouts. I’d like to tell you that I hate self-checkouts because they cost staff paid hours, their jobs essentially. I really hate them because I expect a modicum of service from any retailer or a discount otherwise reflecting my labour, and because, they really, really fucking annoy me.

There’s a voice actor out there somewhere and I’d really, really like to meet her. At night, in a deserted parking lot or beneath an elevated expressway. She tells me twice what the next stop on the train line is. She tells me what numbers to press on my dial pad when I call a toll-free number seeking an assistant, an associate, an expert, a technician, just somebody to pick up the fucking phone. She calls me on behalf of Amazon Prime, the credit card security department, home computer IT, political parties and charities.

“Unidentified item in the bagging area.”

“Please enter the PLU code.”

“Please scan your Save-On-Foods rewards card.”

“Item did not scan. Rescan item”

“Remove items from bagging area.”

“Please ask a Save-On associate for help.”

“What is this ointment for?”

“Please insert your credit or debit card.”

“Thank you for shopping at Save-On-Foods.”

Five times, all the time yet never at the same time. It’s robotic “Revolution 9” cacophony.

 Ann and I lined up for the human cashier. She didn’t appear old enough to warrant a social insurance number. Her given name began with a K and read like a former Australian pop star’s or maybe a Marillion song, a harsh first syllable before an L. I pack our grocery bags because kids don’t know how to. Therefore every item on K’s conveyor belt was laid out in a precise order for weight distribution, frozen or refrigerated bagging and ease of kitchen unpacking. She messed with my system and so I had some time to kill.

I asked her, “Do you get extra pay for having to listen to ceaseless, repetitive self-checkout voice all day?”

“Oh, you learn to tune it out pretty quickly.”

On our way out I paused to tap the bald, god emperor of the machines on the shoulder. He’s a manager of some sort, Ann and I know him by sight. His manner is a little curt, if polite. Maybe his internal needle touches on the autism spectrum. He always seems busy, but efficiently busy, always on the move. I’d have loved a guy like him on my grocery store night crew back in the eighties when K’s then teenaged parents decided they really liked her namesake.

I said, “Doesn’t it make you crazy standing there doing something next to nothing and listening to those voices all day?”

He glanced at me and then resumed staring straight ahead into the middle distance – the delicatessen counter or thereabouts.

Ann tapped my shoulder. She said, “Come along, Geoffrey.”  

meGeoff has been your most unreliable, unbalanced and inaccurate alternative source of rage against the dying of the light since 2013. The novella Of Course You Did is my latest book. Visit www.megeoff.com for links to purchase it in your preferred format from various retailers.