Published Spring 2007
 
Check Out Girl
Seeing who filled their cart with fresh oranges
and leafy dark escarole, broccoli rabe, or frozen dinners,
who bought yeast in small yellow envelopes and who
chose chips my mother wouldn't buy—even for parties.
Behind the meat department, we changed in a room
that smelled of rancid fat, the scent clinging
to the pressed uniforms we had to be wearing before
we could punch the clock.
Italian women chose my register although other lines
were open. I didn't need to be told to double bag,
to place bleach and cans on the bottom of their shopping
carts, no glass against glass, eggs and peaches on top.
No scanners then, we memorized the prices.
Ronzoni 2 for 53 cents, Del Monte peaches 2 for 27.
Saturday, first in line when the store opened,
one man—balding, uncombed wisps sticking out,
coat covered in cat hair. Each week, he bought
a quart of milk, twenty-four cans of cat food,
and a three-pound bag of yellow onions.
"How many cats do you have?" "Seven." He didn't look up.
When the store closed, we had to put back
what people left up front when their whim changed
or they were short. The worst was the endless cookie aisle.
We placed meat and cheese, out all day, in their coolers.
One girl put things away anywhere, hid them behind
other boxes, intent as if she'd had instructions.
We left the same time one night. Outside, she lit
a cigarette and offered one while she waited
for the bus. I shook my head and walked home,
proud I didn't waste my fifteen cents on bus fare.
I was sixteen, saving to get married,
didn't mind standing all day Saturday,
not too tired for Anthony at night
when we planned our future—
after college, after we married,
after we could.
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