I don’t mind grocery shopping at Walmart at all. After I did an item by item, apples to apples price comparison of the things I buy at the grocery store and found that they cost 30% less than what I was paying for them at the Kroger and Tom Thumb stores down the street it was a no-brainer for me to make Walmart my preferred provider of food stuff.
But this story isn’t about who has the best prices, it’s about Betty . . .
I had picked up everything I needed and made my way to the front of the store in search of the shortest check out line. It was about five o’clock on a Sunday afternoon. The place was busy but not packed. Most of the folks who shop on Sunday had probably come and gone. The picked over selection in the vegetable section was pretty good proof. Checkout aisle #9 only had one other person in line and it looked like they were about to finish up. I pulled my cart up to the conveyor belt and unloaded my fruits and vegetables, my tuna fish, my low sugar grape jelly, my english muffins and all the rest of the healthy, good for me and good to eat things in my cart.
I noticed that Betty, the cashier was apologizing to the lady in front of me. The roll of paper in the register had run out and she had to take a minute and load up a new roll. Betty looked to be in her early sixties . . . or maybe her fifties if her life had been a hard one. I think it was the later. Betty had long greying hair that hadn’t been pampered. She wore glasses that were ten years out of style. I’m pretty sure that Betty didn’t go to the gym or take Pilates classes.
Once Betty had the new roll loaded and completed the check out, the customer handed her three gift cards and asked that they be loaded with $25 each. Betty began the process but there seemed to be a problem, the card the customer was using to pay wouldn’t process. Betty apologized and attempted to run the card several time. No luck. Betty called over a Manager. Katherine was in her early 30’s with shoulder length dark hair. She was wearing the Walmart “management” shirt, khaki slacks and sensible shoes.
Nothing seemed to work. Katherine slapped keys on the keyboard. She swiped her management card. The customer swiped her card several times. Katherine took the customer’s card to a different register to see if it would read there and reported back that there must be something wrong with the card.
I noticed that Betty shook just a little. It wasn’t noticeable at first but her head had just the slightest “bob” up and down.
All of this took place over the course of about five minutes. But, like dog years, five minutes idling in a check out line at Walmart is like thirty five minutes in real time. Oddly enough, I rarely get exasperated during these situations. It’s sort of a zen thing for me. I just go to my happy place (i.e. pull out my iphone and either check Facebook, read Twitter or scan emails) and wait for it to finish.
Eventually, the card read/not read shenanigans ran their course. Betty and Katherine exchanged a glance, shrugged their shoulders and the lady left without the three gift cards. My turn now.
The conveyor belt with my food lurched forward and I shuffled up to the register.
Betty apologized for the wait. “No problem” I replied. Seriously, it was no problem. It was a Sunday afternoon. I had spent several hours watching the Italian Grand Prix that day so it was clear I didn’t have a busy schedule for the day.
Betty made some comment about the lady with cards along the lines of “I can’t say what I want to say sometimes or I will loose my job.” I replied without the smallest trace of wit “yep, that’s one of the problems with working with the public.” It wasn’t particularly clever but Betty must have sensed that I was some sort of Kindred spirit and smiled back. The next thing that Betty said was “just one more hour and I can go home . . .”
Betty turned out to be one of the slowest cashiers I’ve had the joy of experiencing. She had a lot of trouble with the plastic bags. You have to use your thumb and forefinger to grab one side and slide it open. This was not something that Betty seemed to have mastered. She even took out a small tin of moisturizer for her fingers and that didn’t seem to help much.
Amazingly, I was still the only person in Betty’s line.
Eventually,we got into a rhythm. Betty would get a bag open, fill it up, spin the turntable towards me, I would take the bag off the rack, put it in my cart and before the turntable spun away I would open a bag.
This was working.
I lady joined us in Betty’s aisle. She had one item. She was less than five feet tall. She was also just a little less than three feet wide. She was wearing flip flops and had on a tank top and a “way too short for her build” khaki skirt, both of which looked like they were at least two sizes too small. Like the rebels in Libya, her tank top and skirt looked like they were about to take matters into their own hands and liberate her physical body from the constraints imposed on them by these helpless clothes. Nice. This is why there is a People of Walmart site and a very funny People of Walmart song and video. It’s not because of her size, we come in all shapes and sizes, but clearly she had either lost a bet or there are no mirrors in her house.
Betty was working as hard as she could but the new lady didn’t know that. After a bit she said, “do you need some help back there?” But it wasn’t said with compassion if you get my drift. Betty replied “I’m working as fast as I can, I’m only human”. Betty was right on both counts. The lady mumbled something that I didn’t catch. Betty looked around and said, “I think number seven is open.”
By this time I only had three more items on the conveyor belt but the lady took her one item and walked over to number seven just as a woman with cart full of groceries arrived. I smiled. I smiled big.
Betty finished up, I did my part on the keypad and the machine spat out the receipt. I looked at Betty and said, “hang in there, just one more hour and then you can go home and relax.” I didn’t know what was waiting for Betty when she got off her shift. I hoped she could get some peace. I hoped she could rest. I hoped that her emotional tank that had been drained by her shift as a cashier at Walmart on a Sunday afternoon would be replenished. I hoped that she had hope . . .
Betty looked at me with her greying hair, her tired eyes, her out of fashion glasses, smiled and said “have a nice day” and turned back to work.