The Checkout Line

A quick in and out. That's all it will take to grab a deli sandwich and something to drink - or so I assume. As soon as I enter the store and the double doors slide close behind me, I see the one solitary cashier, and a line that is twelve people deep. Each person has a shopping cart filled to the top.

No biggie, that's what self-checkout is for.

I head to the deli aisle and grab an Italian sub that is made early morning. The bottled drinks are in the next aisle. I turn the corner and it must be my lucky day. My favorite flavor is in stock, and it has a two-for-one offer.

I'll take two, thank you very much.

A quick glance at my watch shows me at the two-minute mark, which is great because I'll have plenty of time to devour this sub once I pay for these things. I approach the lengthy line of people that are patiently waiting for the haggard cashier while she does her thing.

Sorry folks, I'm going to the self-checkout lanes while your frozen stuff melts before it gets scanned.

One lady looks at me like I'm out of my mind. The good news for me is that no one is in line there. I take my rightful place at the empty checkout station.

What? Out of order?

I look at the other station and it's the same message on the screen. I hang my head down and walk back to the end of the long line that I mentally ridiculed before. I walk past that woman who now has a smug look on her face that is screaming, "Back of the line, loser."

Yeah, whatever lady, I'll add myself to the queue like every other miserable person in line.

When I say people were miserable, it isn't an understatement. Most are doom scrolling on their phones, and a couple of people make halfhearted attempts to wrangle their kids to keep them in line. Another person is talking to themselves as they rehearse their "Understaffed and overworked" speech for the store manager.

If there even is a store manager around.

One person is in a world of their own, though. He's on the phone and the way he's holding it up to his mouth makes it seem like he's going to take a bite out of it, like caviar on a cracker. He's number eleven in line and a bit out of my range for me to hear who he's talking to.

Oh, well, I'll thumb through one of these celebrity magazines on the rack in front of me.

"Two and a half million, that's right." He says nonchalantly to whomever is on the other end of the phone call.

Okay, two and a half million? Forget this celebrity schlock, I'm listening in. I wonder that's this guy is all about with that dark bluish suit, a clean-cut face, and hair parted meticulously to the side. He must be some kind of rich business guy. What type, though? He looks like a banker, accountant, or even a lawyer.

I pretend to read as I flip through the pages of the magazine, while turning my ear in his direction. Something seems to have irked him. Maybe he finally noticed how many people are ahead of him.

"Yeah, those two. I want them out of the picture. Gone. Just get it done."

You know, for a reasonably handsome looking guy, he sure has a sourpuss face when his forehead wrinkles up and his cheeks get sucked in. Who pissed this guy off so much that he'd want them out of the picture for two and a half million dollars?

"Listen... No... We had an agreement."

He's so miffed that he might actually bite into his phone.

"You said you'd have it taken care of in two days. It's past the deadline."

Deadlines? Dead lines? Dead lines of people? How many are going to die and how do I stop this?

I look the man up and down and I know I can take him down if push comes to shove. He seems like one of those frat-boy, fancy coffee drinking, sports car driving, types.

Yes, but if I take him down, how do I stop the other person from completing the job? Oh boy, this simple lunch run just got complicated in a hurry.

"I want the blacks and the reds gone first."

Why I'll be a son of a gun. This suit guy is a racist piece of work.

I tuck my sandwich under my armpit, put away the magazine, and move both bottles to one hand, holding them by their narrow necks with my fingers.

Is anyone else hearing this stuff?

I look around me, and everyone is in their own digital cocoon.

Well, I guess it's up to me then.

The line moves up after what seems like twenty minutes. At least i'm in a better position to sneak a quick photo of this guy without him noticing. *snap*

Got you.

I slide my phone back into my front pocket.

"This thing has layers that go really deep." His jowls are clenched tight, and his lips have shortened to match his temper.

Layers? Who else is involved? How many people are in on this? Should I call the cops? Is it safe to call the cops?

"Don't screw it up. I want it done before I get back - twenty minutes. Got it? Good." He's fuming after he hangs up and scrolls through his phone. It looks like he's texting someone now.

The person in front of me has a full cart. I tap her on the shoulder and show her my three items, hoping to evoke some humanity and compassion.

Yes! it worked.

I thank her, and now there's only one person between me and this this over hair gelled prick.

I keep my eyes locked on his head, hoping to make eye contact. My heart is beating so fast that my sandwich, tucked firmly against my ribs, is getting crushed with each beat.

What's he doing now?

He's checking his shiny gold banded wristwatch, and he's surveying the line.

Now's my chance.

His eyes catch mine.

Oh shit.

He gives me a nod and a smile.

Weird.

His face looks so personable, like a good friend or someone respectable in the community.

But I know the truth. Not today, pal.

I give him a scowl in return, and I tell him I'm onto him.

"Excuse me? What are you talking about? Do I know you?" The absurdity of him shrugging his shoulders and feigning bemusement is worthy of an award.

The nerve of him playing innocent. Luckily, there's a guy between us, or I'd show him a thing or two.

The short man in front of me steps to the side, leaving an unobstructed path between me and this psychopath. With a clearer view, this criminal mastermind has surprisingly unblemished skin. I suppose a person can maintain a healthy skincare regimen when they've got someone else doing their dirty work for them.

"You mind explaining exactly what you're talking about?" He looks like he's getting angry. The eyebrows at the bridge of his nose are taking the shape of the swoosh logo for that sneaker company.

I tell him I know about the hit. He claims that I'm the crazy one. We argue back and forth a few times before I let him know that I heard everything about the money, taking two people out, along with the blacks and reds. He denies all of that, too.

You sick bastard, acting dumb won't get you out of this. I get my bottles ready as he reaches for his phone.

He's laughing at me now.

I ask him about the agreement and deadline. People around us are finally taking notice. He's not going anywhere with this many witnesses.

I got you now.

  He thinks I'm intimidated as he walks up to me, phone facing me, while pointing at the screen and saying something.

"You mean this?" He's standing so close to me I can smell his breath mint.

He's a typical mob boss who indulges in a breath mint after smoking his favorite cigar in a dark room, no doubt.

I don't understand why he's shoving a photo of an expensive blue corvette in my face.

"Look close. See anything?"

To be honest, the phone is a bit too close to my eyes to focus.

"I'll help you out. This is a high-resolution image with TWO AND A HALF MILLION pixels."

Oh?

"With RED pin stripes, and BLACK accent markers..." He moves his finger along the different areas of the car and continues to say stuff as I take a step back.

"And here are TWO random people in the background that need to be TAKEN OUT, as in removed from the photo." He's speaking slower and really enunciating the words I parroted earlier to him as if I'm a child and need time to process them.

"And the LAYERS are the composites that make up the image of the car..."

Like a graphics editing program?

"Which was supposed to be edited and sent to our client by yesterday's DEADLINE."

Oh boy, I think I really messed up big time.

There are so many people staring at me. That woman with the scowl from earlier just shakes her head in disappointment. The cashier stops scanning items and looks grateful that she has a moment to catch her breath.

I apologize to the man several times for the misunderstanding. It was surprisingly easy, considering his eyes are beaming with a mix of blueish-gray glitter that conveys that he is both simultaneously amused and annoyed.

At that moment, I decide I really didn't need the sandwich or the drinks, and I place them with the cashier as I make my exit from the line. It's not like I have the appetite to eat anymore after what just happened.

Later that evening, as I'm watching the local news, the reporter stands in front of a federal courthouse where something tragic has happened. There are close to a dozen police cars in the background, yellow barrier tape sections off the public, and I can even see a few paramedics.

It just so happens that a corporate espionage defense case went awry during a hearing. The bullet point graphics floating to the left of the reporter state that the case was over a two and a half million-dollar lawsuit. This corporation was caught dumping some kind of black and red toxic chemical into the local groundwater supply that seeped several layers deep into the earth.

The reporter goes on to explain that two people who were shot were key witnesses. Fortunately, they were not mortally wounded. As for the assailant, he looks like some sort of courtroom staffer, but the police investigators on the scene aren't willing to elaborate.

Weird, but it makes sense. Who else could get a weapon past security? This is all just a coincidence, right?

Just as I'm about to change the channel, look who is coming down the courthouse steps in handcuffs, escorted by two policewomen? It's mister fancy pants, smiley-face, minty-breath man - although he's not smiling anymore, and that carefully coiffed hair of his is going to need a lot of styling gel to fix that mess. I verify it's him by pulling up the pic I took of him earlier at the store.

Yep, got you.

I've suddenly gotten the appetite for an Italian sub.