Article - Sydney Morning Herald - 14 January 2006
A golden moment in a busy checkout lane
By William McInnes January 14, 2006
HE WAS a young man, aged no more than his late teens. He looked a little nervous, his hands running through the pockets of his tracksuit pants and then darting up and scratching his nose, before roaming through his long hair and then back down to fidget in his pockets again. Three sets of eyes, of suspicious eyes, looked at him. He didn't have the money to pay.
We were in the checkout line at the local supermarket and it was late and we'd been standing there for what seemed like an eternity, there in the express lane while an old lady had counted out her money and questioned the total. The young woman at the checkout had chewed a bit on her gum and then gone through the receipt explaining the items to the old lady.
We had all waited. We looked around at the other checkouts but they were all closed. We were stuck here. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting as the young woman at the checkout slowly went through the old lady's list. "You've got your no-name shampoo, you got your no-name bacon, you've got butter," on it went. It sounded like some chant, some incantation, almost hypnotic in its monotony.
I thought of all the times in my life I'd spent waiting in checkout lines. All those hours, standing, shuffling forward, flipping through the junk magazines, wondering whether I should take a punt and change lanes. I've seen men and women jump from one lane to another like deranged drivers in rush hour. I've seen queue rage where somebody has cut off somebody else's trolley just as they career over to that little lane to freedom. The checkout. All those hours of life. I can remember as a little boy sitting in the trolley pushed by my mother and hearing the ringing bells of the old cash register. It was a happy sound. Mum would know the women in the shop and they would pass the time of day. I'd look forward to that sound because I knew the chances of scoring one of those lollipops placed just by the cash register were pretty good if mum felt in the right mood.
These days the checkouts have got more bribes and enticements for children daubed around them than decorations on a Christmas tree. It is an amazingly bald-faced piece of consumer temptation. Have supermarkets no shame?
When my children reach out for some sweet little delight I hear the words my mum would say to me as I reached for one of those lollipops by the cheery cash registers of my youth. They echo to me and I hear myself saying, "Put it back, it's not for you. PutitBack!"
I hear the chant again. "You've got no-name sugar. You've got condensed milk. You've got wine gums."
Wine gums. The old lady looked at the young woman at the register. "They're a treat for my hubby. He likes them of a night." The old lady looked back at the rest of the receipt. The woman at the cash register suggested the old lady might like to take something back. She looked at the receipt for a long time. She picked up the wine gums. "You can keep these, they're just a treat." She gently dropped them on the checkout.
The man in front of me in the checkout line humphed a little bit and said, "At last!" Under his breath. He started piling up his shopping. The young kid with the long greasy hair and tracksuit pants stood in front of him and put his loaf of no-name bread on the checkout. The man in front of me grasped a rectangular piece of metal and banged it on the checkout to separate his shopping from the loaf of white bread. He did it like some border guard banging down a gate on some godforsaken frontier.
The woman behind the checkout welcomed the young man to the front of the queue with that particular tone that people who work long hours at checkouts have. "How are you today?" No reply is expected; it doesn't even sound like a question.
That's when the young man in the tracksuit started looking nervous. That's when me and the border guard and the woman at the checkout all thought: "He doesn't have the money to pay." The young man asked how much the bread cost. The border guard clicked his teeth and looked at me. "Well, reeeeeeeally," he said. Now, in the language of the checkout lane, the words "Well, reeeeeeeally" are pretty strong stuff. The border guard went further."Some people!"
Some people. Yes, some people just don't care how long they hold people up. The woman at the register punched up the price, and told the young man with the greasy hair. He pulled out some small silver coins and counted them. He winced. He looked back at me and the border guard. He laughed and simply said: "Don't have enough, but I do have enough."
He gave the bread back to the checkout woman. Instead he picked up the wine gums the old lady had discarded and counted out the money for them. He didn't wait for the register's receipt. He was in a hurry. He scratched his way quickly through the doors of the supermarket and we could all see him through the big glass windows.
He ran up to the old lady and stopped in front of her; she looked like she got a bit of a fright. The young man put his hand on her arm softly and then with his other hand nervously gave the old lady a small round tin. The wine gums shone in the bright lights outside the supermarket. Shone gold.
The old lady stood still for a moment and then smiled. She went to say something but the young man with the long hair smiled, shook his head and wandered off.
She looked down at the tin of wine gums. Her husband liked them of a night.
The border guard sniffed a little bit and said quietly: "Well, really."
The woman at the cash register welcomed him and smiled. "Yeah, some people. How are you today."
By William McInnes January 14, 2006
HE WAS a young man, aged no more than his late teens. He looked a little nervous, his hands running through the pockets of his tracksuit pants and then darting up and scratching his nose, before roaming through his long hair and then back down to fidget in his pockets again. Three sets of eyes, of suspicious eyes, looked at him. He didn't have the money to pay.
We were in the checkout line at the local supermarket and it was late and we'd been standing there for what seemed like an eternity, there in the express lane while an old lady had counted out her money and questioned the total. The young woman at the checkout had chewed a bit on her gum and then gone through the receipt explaining the items to the old lady.
We had all waited. We looked around at the other checkouts but they were all closed. We were stuck here. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting as the young woman at the checkout slowly went through the old lady's list. "You've got your no-name shampoo, you got your no-name bacon, you've got butter," on it went. It sounded like some chant, some incantation, almost hypnotic in its monotony.
I thought of all the times in my life I'd spent waiting in checkout lines. All those hours, standing, shuffling forward, flipping through the junk magazines, wondering whether I should take a punt and change lanes. I've seen men and women jump from one lane to another like deranged drivers in rush hour. I've seen queue rage where somebody has cut off somebody else's trolley just as they career over to that little lane to freedom. The checkout. All those hours of life. I can remember as a little boy sitting in the trolley pushed by my mother and hearing the ringing bells of the old cash register. It was a happy sound. Mum would know the women in the shop and they would pass the time of day. I'd look forward to that sound because I knew the chances of scoring one of those lollipops placed just by the cash register were pretty good if mum felt in the right mood.
These days the checkouts have got more bribes and enticements for children daubed around them than decorations on a Christmas tree. It is an amazingly bald-faced piece of consumer temptation. Have supermarkets no shame?
When my children reach out for some sweet little delight I hear the words my mum would say to me as I reached for one of those lollipops by the cheery cash registers of my youth. They echo to me and I hear myself saying, "Put it back, it's not for you. PutitBack!"
I hear the chant again. "You've got no-name sugar. You've got condensed milk. You've got wine gums."
Wine gums. The old lady looked at the young woman at the register. "They're a treat for my hubby. He likes them of a night." The old lady looked back at the rest of the receipt. The woman at the cash register suggested the old lady might like to take something back. She looked at the receipt for a long time. She picked up the wine gums. "You can keep these, they're just a treat." She gently dropped them on the checkout.
The man in front of me in the checkout line humphed a little bit and said, "At last!" Under his breath. He started piling up his shopping. The young kid with the long greasy hair and tracksuit pants stood in front of him and put his loaf of no-name bread on the checkout. The man in front of me grasped a rectangular piece of metal and banged it on the checkout to separate his shopping from the loaf of white bread. He did it like some border guard banging down a gate on some godforsaken frontier.
The woman behind the checkout welcomed the young man to the front of the queue with that particular tone that people who work long hours at checkouts have. "How are you today?" No reply is expected; it doesn't even sound like a question.
That's when the young man in the tracksuit started looking nervous. That's when me and the border guard and the woman at the checkout all thought: "He doesn't have the money to pay." The young man asked how much the bread cost. The border guard clicked his teeth and looked at me. "Well, reeeeeeeally," he said. Now, in the language of the checkout lane, the words "Well, reeeeeeeally" are pretty strong stuff. The border guard went further."Some people!"
Some people. Yes, some people just don't care how long they hold people up. The woman at the register punched up the price, and told the young man with the greasy hair. He pulled out some small silver coins and counted them. He winced. He looked back at me and the border guard. He laughed and simply said: "Don't have enough, but I do have enough."
He gave the bread back to the checkout woman. Instead he picked up the wine gums the old lady had discarded and counted out the money for them. He didn't wait for the register's receipt. He was in a hurry. He scratched his way quickly through the doors of the supermarket and we could all see him through the big glass windows.
He ran up to the old lady and stopped in front of her; she looked like she got a bit of a fright. The young man put his hand on her arm softly and then with his other hand nervously gave the old lady a small round tin. The wine gums shone in the bright lights outside the supermarket. Shone gold.
The old lady stood still for a moment and then smiled. She went to say something but the young man with the long hair smiled, shook his head and wandered off.
She looked down at the tin of wine gums. Her husband liked them of a night.
The border guard sniffed a little bit and said quietly: "Well, really."
The woman at the cash register welcomed him and smiled. "Yeah, some people. How are you today."
posted by WilliamWatch at 8:58 PM
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