Next in Line

Days later, I wonder if the mother and daughter are still in Bath and Body Works, standing at the counter, waiting for the cashier to ring up their purchases correctly.

I didn’t time how long I was standing in line behind them but it seemed excessive. It was long enough to be noticeable. It was long enough to slow down the Christmas shopping roll I had been on, getting in and out of stores quickly until I hit a brick wall on my last stop.

The mother fiddles with various pieces of plastic in her purse. The cashier rings up each item separately, with a concentration that is almost bovine. I have mentally gone over my list of remaining Christmas shopping. I can’t make out everything they’re buying. It seems like a lot of little bottles of lotions and things. I mentally go over next week’s grocery list. Then the cashier starts taking each item out of the bag. He unwraps a delicately wrapped glass bottle. I start counting floor tiles. He starts ringing everything up again.

I remember the settlement on our house took about half an hour.

This was my fault, really. After doing so much shopping online, I figured going to physical stores might be a change of pace, especially for things like clothing. I don’t like physically shopping but sometimes it’s nice to leave the house. Sometimes.

Maybe I shouldn’t judge. Maybe things are just that complicated at Bath and Body Works that it takes many minutes of price scanning and double checking and all other sorts of precautions. It may be that the scented potions that the store sells in those little bottles are just too precious for anybody to walk in off the street to buy. Maybe there’s a screening process, like with a new car.

Of course, it could all be some kind of bizarre cover. Maybe the woman and her daughter are spies who are helping the cashier break into the NSA computers. Maybe each step of the complicated process brings them closer to government secrets.  

In any case, I’m still standing behind them, too meek to speak up but becoming less meek by the second, if only in my own head. The woman in line behind me finds an employee at the front of the store who asks where the other cashier is. The cashier/spy says she’s in the bathroom but she’s been there for some time. The third employee rings me up with an apology. I swipe my credit card and the whole thing takes 30 seconds.

The mother and daughter may still be at the store. Maybe it stayed open all night until they could pay for their soaps and lotions. Maybe they’re slumped over the counter and hungry and tired and cranky. Can we expedite this? There are only 14 shopping days til Christmas.