Honorable Mention June 2007 Non Fiction
Checkup at the Checkout
by Glenda Rynn
At the grocery store, I headed for the Fast-Check line with my purchase.
Ahead of me was an old man wearing a boat captain’s cap, a navy zippered jacket and holding a bouquet of fresh flowers wrapped with yellow paper decorated with multi-colored butterflies. Trembling on a slender wire above a daisy in the bouquet was a delicate golden butterfly.
As I came closer to the cash register, the old fellow was telling the checker, “Yes, I’m getting these for my wife’s grave.”
"The blonde, early-thirtysomething checker responded, “Oh, how nice. How often do you get them?”
"Every Friday. They clear everything on Thursdays so this way the flowers last the longest,” he smiled, reflecting the attractive young woman’s warmth.
"How long has she been gone?” She turned from her register to face him.
"A year and a half now.”
"Oh, my,” the checker responded with a soft voice as her blue eyes absorbed him.
"We were married for 62 years,” he nodded with a slight smile. Covering the cheeks of his open, earnest face was a day’s worth of white stubble.
"Wow, 62 years!” She tilted her blonde head to one side. “Well, it’s wonderful that you do that.”
He nodded once more. His business quite over, and still holding his flowers chest high, the widower turned with a vulnerable Little Engine smile on his face that seemed to say, “I think I can, I think I can,” and headed out the door with short steps.
"Isn’t he something, so sweet,” the checker said as she partially turned away to wipe her tears with the back of one hand and the fingers of the other. I noticed her decorated long, acrylic fingernails, her one-inch, curly eyelashes, heavily mascaraed, and glowing, almost professional makeup. A lovely slender woman, she would have blended in well with those who walk the Red Carpet at Hollywood film premiers.
We then exchanged a few words to the effect that it was lucky for him that his wife’s grave was in this area rather than off in a family plot in some other state. This way he could work himself through the grieving process a little better.
After another glance toward the door he had gone through, the checker turned to me.
“Here in this job, I get to interact with so many people. I’m always learning something from my patients.” A pause. “My customers !” she caught herself. “Ha, well, I guess sometimes they are like patients.”
"Okay, doctor, here’s my money.” I handed over a couple of bills for my cold drink. The checker laughed, made the transaction, and faced me.
“I've gotten to know so many. I just love ALL my customers.” Then with a look of marveling and a sigh of satisfaction, she leaned over to put her elbows on the counter and rest her chin on her hands. She reflected, “I’m so fortunate to work here!”
I left. She gestured goodbye to me on my way out and then turned to help the next person who had just come up.
It had been a special moment in Southern California, land of the Entitled.
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Quarterly Writing Contest