scattered pictures.

I was reminded of something recently, while watching Al Pacino, who, in character, drinks a whiskey in the 1989 film, Sea of Love; subsequently calling his ex-wife, drunk, to tell her he suspects he has diabetes.  He captures, quite subtly, the pathos, the utter aloneness, of the character, in the moment when he takes the glass and, hunched over, sucks the liquid very gently into his mouth.  Almost as though he’s making love to it (the glass, maybe, but more likely, its contents).  I was reminded of my, at one time, adoration of those very simple moments, simple but so-so-momentous, during the acting process.  It made me catch my breath with the intensity of the memory, followed by the knife-in-the-gut immediacy of disappointment.  Disappointment that I no longer have the opportunity to experience that lovely, liquid sensation.  Not the liquid whiskey – I’ll probably take another stab at sensing that – rather, the sensation of playing at being someone else; of disappearing into the problems and hysterias and neuroses of someone other than me.

****************

The checker, probably the assistant manager, with his perma-press, pilling, white-ish, short-sleeve shirt, at the grocery store, nervous as hell because it was so busy, glancing at me with a quivery furrow between his eyebrows and an even more quavering, throat-clearing chatter.  He reminded me of my experience as a grocery store clerk.  He made me think of the novice period, when I would see several people in my line and the lump in my throat would grow into a golf ball that I couldn’t possibly swallow anything past, and the rivers of sweat would rush down through the valley between my shoulder blades and my hands would suddenly become foreign objects that, damp and awkward, did everything but what I willed them to do.  How the people in the line would stare, they’d hem and haw, clear their throats, look at their watches, peering around to see if there was a checker less tortoise-like than me.

And he reminded me of the later period, where I was skilled in my role as clerk, that I would lean against the counter and swoooosh the groceries with upc codes across the laser eye, that I was proud of my rating as one of the top five fastest checkers in the store, that I could ring groceries up like the wind, a gale force that my arms and shoulders and hands manipulated in their deftness.  I knew every code in the produce book, even the most obscure items, all of the asian vegetables and seasonal fruits.  I was someone to be reckoned with; a clerking black belt.  People who were lucky enough to select my line were blessed with my awesome abilities as their checker.  They could, ignorant though they were, rest assured that I would not ring something up in error; and if, by chance, I managed to scan a package twice, my finely-tuned ear picked up the second quick beep, whereupon I would immediately void the accidental scan.  The ancient ladies who watched the display counter like fragile, bent birds with squinting, yet perfectly-sighted beady eyes, were never able to catch me at having overcharged them.  My till, always within five pennies of perfection, even on days when I rang close to ten thousand dollars in groceries.  My pride regarding my abilities was such that I felt nothing but utter boredom in the position, after a certain point.  The days that we experienced an onslaught of customers were slightly more interesting, but the skin on my palms remained chalklike in the assuredness of my competence, my mastery of the task.  The feeling of nonchalance that pervaded my body, when I could see the line stretch snakelike down an aisle, was almost sensuous, almost erotic, it was so well-defined.  It was a muscle that I could flex at will.  I could drop into a sort of trance as my hands glided effortlessly from one item to the next, as I visualized flipping the numbers around in my head when providing change, so as to do it without thinking.  I relished the busy times, I so adored reveling in my cashiering prowess.

I wanted to whisper to the assistant manager that he needn’t be nervous, because if he simply took charge of his form, of the exterior revelation of his excitement over the length of the line, that everyone watching the water bead on his nose and upper lip would cease to feel ill at ease; that, were he to convey a relaxed manner in his task, the customers would pick up on that communication of faith in his abilities, and the potential for disgruntled attitudes would disappear completely.  I wanted to tell him so many things, but I realized that it was beyond my reach, his enthusiastic behavior.  I couldn’t possibly convey my knowledge of how to handle something that he, in fact, didn’t necessarily want to handle any other way.  I tried, though, despite knowing the uselessness of my words, to assuage his panic.  “I’m not in any rush, man,” I mouthed, keeping my tone light, buoyant.  He glanced at me again, smiled anxiously, nodded, looked quickly over his shoulder at the line, and re-focused on the trembling hands that were his awkward tools.

Comments

[Catherine]

Please tell me you get paid for this shit. Once upon a time, I fancied myself a perty good grocery clerk, too. You brought back memories I'd loooooonng forgotten. Beautiful post, Deb!!!

[Mommy off the Record]

Wow. Only a great writer can make a recounting of a grocery clerk job this eloquent and engaging. Loved every word of it!

[Jenny]

You must write a book.

Seriously...you are so tremendously talented it makes me wonder if one day Hailey will brag to her grandchildre that her mom knew Debbie back when she was just a simple blogger.

[mothergoosemouse]

Loved it. Even the smallest tasks can bring such a sense of expertise when you are practiced and confident.

[mamatulip]

Keep writing. Don't ever stop.

[MelanieinOrygun]

What Mamatulip said.
You humble me, Debbie. I am glad to have the chance to read your excellent writing.

[Rock the Cradle]

"The ancient ladies who watched the display counter like fragile, bent birds..."

Nice. Good writing here, Obsessive One.

Wait a minute. I think I waited on these same ladies during my spell at Borders years ago...

[bubandpie]

You brought back my memories of retail hell as well. I don't think I ever achieved that cashier-Zen stage - my hands have always been pretty awkward tools to work with. ;)

Keep this stuff coming. You know what we like!

[Pattie]

Well written, once again. I could picture the whole scene!

[Nancy]

That Was Amazing.

This: "The feeling of nonchalance that pervaded my body, when I could see the line stretch snakelike down an aisle, was almost sensuous, almost erotic, it was so well-defined. It was a muscle that I could flex at will." = poetry. Wow.

[Her Bad Mother]

First laundry, now this. You can weave poetry out of anything, it seems.

And. Hear you on the acting. Lived there once myself; know that I can't go back.

[jozet]

You were an actor? How did I not know that! I miss acting so much. So very much.

And I heartily agree with all the above: you are a gifted writer. Truly. Thank you for continuing to share your gift with us.

Signed, a humble reader and adoring public

[something blue]

What a fine web of words lady!

Reminds me of my days in retail at the busy record store. The U.S. tourists would look at the change they received, expecting a bill and getting coins.
"You've done cheated me."
"No sir, there is your loonie."
Furiously snapping, "Who are you calling loonie?"
"No, that is the Canadian dollar."

Good times!

[Andrea]

Seriously, and you have complimented little ol' me on being a fine writer? I pale in comparison to you, girlie. You got talent!

And when I was a checker, I reveled in the longer lines myself. Meant for a quicker shift. But I doubt I could have written it like this.

[motherbumper]

g*d damn. you can write. me want more.

I once considered myself the supreme cashier and you captured so much in that post, I felt like a little wrinkle in time happened to me. Huge thank you.

[Attila the Mom]

I can't begin to tell you how fabulous this post is.

I just love the way you write!

[Ruth Dynamite]

You're my hero. You know that, don't you?