THE LINE

THE LINE

By

Les Clark

Cashier Emeritus, Amanada Forrester (she of the Silver Service recipient at Barnaby, Smythe and Okstein) looked up briefly. She had been scanning an unending sea of bar-coded tags all twisted with themselves from a mountain of children’s clothing high enough to block her vision of the impatient toe-tapping line yet to cross her register’s path.

           They’ll never make it on that dancing show.

           Moments earlier, the store manager had given her the worst news possible during the Christmas rush. Especially the day before. With so many years reading body language, Forrester knew bad news before it was ever uttered. James Smythe, grandson of a founder, (in actuality, they needed to find a place for him) slow-walked out of his office, the one with the one-way mirror, and with his head down, whispered his tale of woe.

           “Carole called out sick. Well, she said her kid has the croup and Mark said his car won’t start. I’m not happy I heard music in the background. So, Amanda...” Smythe cleared his throat as if he was about to announce woman and children first into the lifeboats.

           Forrester turned slightly to her left. “What about Celia?” Had Amanda been a dragon, flame would have flickered out with the question. The blond trainee had been known to make frequent visits to the executive offices. Lozenges hadn’t improved her breath.

           Smythe coughed again, his eyes shifting like pin ball flippers. He pulled a silk handkerchief from his breast pocket and covered his mouth. “She’s, uh...” and never finished the admission no one wanted to hear.

           “So, Amanda, you’re it today,” Smythe croaked before double-timing it back to his office and the three-fingers of a single malt Scotch, rocks, cooling on his credenza. No one from corporate had bothered to inform the family scion and ivy league graduate what constituted the Christmas buying madness.

           He’d almost made it back to his cave of solitude when a well-dressed matron shouted an un-matronly demand from further down the ever expanding line.

           “Hey you. Yes, you in the tie. Can you open another register?”

           She didn’t hear his whimper.

           “We’ve had some call-outs,” he mumbled as his door closed like a Venus fly trap behind him. The smooth liquor dulled thoughts of that damnable register Smythe never took the time to learn. Discounts? Coupons? Returns? “I could care less,” he slurred after his second double.

           Amanda Forrester, with a quarter century of customer service behind her, stiffened her back, stood erect, raised her palms ready to part the complainers from their attitudes.

           They shan’t get the best of me. I am Moses at the River Nile.

           “Ladies and uh,” Forrester paused, seeing not a single man in line, “and all you ladies...please be patient. Several employees had mishaps today. I will process you as fast, and as accurately, as possible.

           “Process this!” came a muffled comment from a cluster of overfilled carriages.

           “And I ain’t no lady,” came a more masculine voice. Forrester couldn’t echo locate the perp but smiled to herself; a customer is a customer and the goods in Smythe’s Exclusives weren’t museum pieces. Especially during the holidays. And right now, Christmas Eve was ticking closer.

           The young woman currently at her counter had been patient but the dark side covered her like a cloak. Her perfectly applied lipstick disappeared in a thin red slash. She squinted as if she were lining up a salvo. The only thing missing was wetting her thumb for windage.

           Forrester didn’t flinch and didn’t notice a few customers winced at the verbal assault.

           “Can! We! Can! The! Chatter? I’ve got to pee.”

           Forrester smiled, ran her scan gun over the snow fall of  price tags and announced the total in her usually respectful tone. “That will be, madam, $142.36. Will that be cash, credit or debit?”

           “It’ll be nothing. You can keep everything. I’ll never be back. And you folks in line...if you’re smart, you’ll do the same.” She made a precise left face, marching past the blank faces of the unattended registers. The automatic doors slid silently aside. Out in the parking lot, the mouth turned for a final single digit wave.

           Forrester whispered, “Happy Holidays.”

           The next customer, a twenty-something in tartan blazer and the in-vogue torn jeans, nose ring and ears full of faceted stones, leaned millimeters closer. Forrester braced herself for another off the wall protest.

           “That woman was out of line...I think.”

           Forrester shook her head. “Honey, I was in the Army for twenty years. You would think soldiers had never been fed before. And complaints? As they say, ‘you ain’t heard nothin’ yet.’”

           You don’t mess with a mess sergeant.

           Matron-mouth, with several shoppers and minutes ahead of her, had more to say.

           “Hey, can you two stop the flirting and let’s get on with it.” Allies on either side shook their heads in agreement.

           “What’s your name, miss?” Forrester asked her current customer.

           “Maureen. I don’t mind waiting. You should see the bookstore at NU at the start of the school year. Only we complain about book prices.”

           “Well, Maureen, you’ve been so patient I’m going to give you my employee discount. It’s only ten percent but I hope it helps.”

           Maureen pressed all the right buttons for her debit purchase and scurried out to avoid resentful stares.

           The gaggle muttered, “Punk.”

           The next three customers dumped their clothes on the counter and walked away with huffy breathing. Matron-mouth was next.

           “I want to speak with that pipsqueak who slunk away before. And I want to report you.” She turned to admiring support from her squad of squeaky wheel pushers.

           Amanda Forrester sighed her most patient sigh, turned to knock on the revered Smythe polished oak door, her knuckles avoiding the silver plaque of

James Magnus Smythe

General Manager

           “Enter!”

           To Forrester’s practiced military ear, it sounded like ‘eeenntrrr.’

           “Mister Smythe, a customer is dissatisfied with my performance and would appreciate a word with you.” You drunken boob.

           “I’m on a...conference...call.”

           Forrester turned to her complainant. “I’m sorry, madam. It will be some time, but Mister Smythe wants you to take his card and perhaps, at your convenience, you could write a brief note with our complementary store pen.”

           The two women stared at each other, unclean and unhappy thoughts laser-beamed between them. Where the sun don’t shine, and You just try it, were silently traded barbs.

           Finally, Matron-mouth backed down. “Ring these up. I need to get wrapping.”

           “Mom, why is that lady so mad?” A nine-year old shopping with her mother, ten back in line, looked for parental opinion.

           “Christmas makes people nuts, dear.”

           “What would Jesus think about that, mom. Huh?”

           The bearded man ahead of them, dressed in a white blouse and skirt, turned to the young girl. “Listen, kid, if Jesus knew people would be so crazy this time of year, he’d pack up his mom and dad and head out of town.”

           Back at the lone register, the squad was banging their carts in syncopated rhythm, like convicts running their tin cups along the bars. Forrester thought of an old black and white gangster movie from the thirties.

           “Merry Christmas,” she smiled as the last sashayed away.

           “You can’t say that lady,” she shouted back at Forrester. “It’s against the law.”

           Forrester smiled her most placid smile. “Well then, how about Happy Hannukah?”

           The lady flung her arm out. “BAH!” and banged her cart into the sliding doors. Everyone in line looked in amazement out the store window as the shopping cart went careening in an arc into an Amazon truck. A silent movie played out as driver and shopper had unkind words for each other, arms flying like windmills.

           As if a film director yelled “Cue the overhead!” down came the warning: “The store will be closing five minutes. Please proceed to check out.” The remaining customers, groaning with anxiety, regretting their last-minute indolence, filed through Forrester’s register, some with smiles and forced greetings---some with grimaces and stony silence.

           Forrester cleaned her counter, stacked the hangars, bagged the trash for the night janitor and knocked on Smythe’s door. When there was no answer, Forrester cracked the open his door. Smythe lay slumped and snoring in his overstuffed chair, a precariously tilted glass in his hand. A half empty Scotch bottle lay on its side.

           “I’ll see you on Friday, Mister Smythe.” If you’re still employed.

           Occasionally, Christmas wishes do come true.

           Amanada Forrester set the alarm, locked the doors and was soon on her way home.

Have fun talking to the police when you open the doors. I’ll bet you don’t know the code.

           “That cross-dresser had good taste,” she said aloud, turning into traffic.

           The Friday after Christmas is usually reserved for returns, shopping with stocking stuffer gift cards and looking for markdowns. That Friday at Smythe’s Exclusives would be different. Carol, Mark and Celia avoided Amanda Forrester’s eyes as they opened their registers. They turned as one when a well dressed woman in a tailored blue suit emerged from Smythe’s office. The nameplate was gone. The night janitor would later use it as a coaster.

           “I hope you all had a wonderful Christmas. I’m the new store manager. My name is Melissa Barnaby. My grandfather was one of the owners. He would be appalled at the previous occupant. I had a glorious time watching the security videos. Now, let’s have a glorious sales day.”

           Forrester thought the word of the day was ‘glorious’ and would use it as often as possible. She didn’t realize, you know the word, how it would be. Customers started filing in. Something seemed familiar---their faces or demeanor? Forrester couldn’t place it immediately.

           A young. pre-teen girl came right to her counter.

           “Hi. My name is Merrilee. I was in the other day. You know...before Christmas. With my mom. I’m really nervous.”

           Forrester was confused. “Well, thank you for coming back but what can I do for you?”

           Merrilee looked to her mother for support.

           “We didn’t like the way you were treated so we baked you some cookies. I baked them,” she said and handed over a colorful tin decorated with Santa and his reindeer. Right behind the mother and daughter was another familiar face.

           “Remember me? Maureen? I felt so bad at the rude behavior the other day I wanted you to have this hat I knitted.”

           Forrester, usually emotionally solid, dabbed at her eyes. As she accepted the gift, she knew the open weave red hat was Maureen’s, and not new.

“Thank you, Maureen. I’ll wear it home.”

A clean shaven man was next, but his voice was familiar. This time he was dressed in a white cable sweater and jeans under a long camel-colored overcoat. “Ditto what everybody’s said,” he boomed as he handed Forrester a bottle of wine in a long gift bag.

Cowering behind him was the last person Forrester ever expected to see again. She was carrying a neatly wrapped box with a large red ribbon. She had bought her offering at a high-end jeweler.

“Can I say something?” Matron-mouth pleaded.

Almost as one, the several gift-givers before her turned and shouted, “You wait your turn.”