by George Gifford Jr.

Created on: June 02, 2008

Done shopping I approach the cashier. My heart beating, palms sweating. The shopping is finally done and my last duty is to cross the threshold they call the register. When it comes into view its emits a glow. Like a reward for a long day of deciphering nutrition information and price tags. Rounding the corner my stomach turns to knots. My reward has been postponed by a systematic screw up. A process of constant waiting. Some call it a line others call it eternity.

Thirty feet away from the door and I'm in a deadlock. The knowing that the overweight guy in front of me with one item is not moving anywhere fast and the ratio of items to customer mass is grossly awry. Not to mention the odor much like that of mustard gas seeping from his many crevices.
Looking past him, or trying to look past him, the scene continues to test my consumer patients. Scanning this elongated geometric design I begin to make observations. Directly in front of the slightly big boned gentleman is the dark shades guy. That guy that is middle aged who bought the darkest sunglasses from the 1980s he could find. You can never see his eyes and he always has on a polo shirt with the top two button undone.
Harmless enough, I think to myself and my eyes move in front of him to the teenage girl. The girl that is giddy and chewing gum at a sound decibel unknown to mankind. The girl that has two items and only enough money for one so she is having a grand debate with herself about which item to buy.
By this time my insides start to itch. I know if I just could just take a few steps forward this boredom would be over. Still waiting I continue the scan. Looking in front of the teenage girl is the foreign guys. Never just one guy, always a group. You always wonder if these guys are talking about you, but you never know since they are speaking in some Yiddish beat box sounding language that's un-comprehendible to human ears.
Last but not least is the elderly lady that pays with pennies. She always has the giant bag with its own gravitational pull. So big that the smaller items around it want to begin orbit. And not to mention she counts out the pennies at a speed comparable to a small child with a learning disability.
By this time the single mom with the overloaded cart and screaming kids pull up behind me, ramming me in the back with the intent to push the line forward. And the redneck mullet guy with the farmers tan falls in line behind her. Now getting pelted with cheerios I want nothing more than to pay

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