Have You Ever Met A Mean Down’s Syndrome Grocery Bagger?

On Friday I decide to join the churning masses and pick up groceries for the weekend. Normally, I grocery shop on Tuesdays at precisely 4 p.m. It’s busy, but not too busy, and I can escape without having to run people over near the flower department to get to the check-out lanes. Unfortunately, things have been hectic, my schedule has been all screwed up and I was forced, lest my children starve and friends shun me (we had to bring food to our friend’s house), to shop.

So I shopped.

Once again, it’s my belief that people suck. I don’t mind pushy, goal-oriented people. Hell, I can be a pushy, goal-oriented person. What I mind is the woman utterly transfixed by world-changing decisions like choosing between seedless and seeded raspberry jam. Her pondering is done while her empty cart sits in the middle of the aisle. Murderous rage bubbles within me and I find myself wanting to run her, not her cart, over. This does not speak well of me, I understand.

Here’s the deal: I put errands in the category of dumb shit I have to do to survive. Going to Target, buying clothes even, grocery shopping, filling the car with gas, sending mail at the post office, all of these tasks irk me. They are necessary evils, repetitive tasks that support life, but can drain life of meaning turning a person into a rat on a wheel. Ironic that I love blogging so much, isn’t it?

Anyway, so here I am, stuck in the stupid grocery store, with stupid, aimless people on a stupid Friday afternoon when I could have been doing something not stupid….like anything but grocery shop. Little did I know that the whole ordeal is about to be redeemed. I finally got to the check-out aisle. Each lane was four-people deep. The place was mobbed. The checkers look alternately distressed and determined. The baggers move as fast as possible to keep up. Well, most of them do. Turns out that my lane is being bagged by a mentally retarded fellow. Since I don’t shop during rush hour, I don’t know if this staffing choice is customary or not, but the decision seems unwise considering the stress levels at the store. Meh, whatever. At this point, like a cow in a chute, I had given up my autonomy and surrendered to the slaughter. My job was to move with the masses and submit.

Finally, it’s my turn and I get the pleasure of watching the checking, bagging interface up close and personal. Have you ever met a mean retarded person? I hadn’t. My cousin with Down’s Syndrome could be a stinker sometimes, but her nature was characteristic of the happy, sweetness most of us associate with Downs. My son has been in special education and the Down’s children were all absolute joys. Enter the Bag Man. His foul attitude permeated the area at the end of the aisle. Scowling at the checker, he goes on a temporary strike because she doesn’t send the yogurt cups down the chute properly. His stalling forces her to start bagging herself, thus upping the ante. Now, he stops and starts yelling at her. You’re not supposed to hold the yogurt. You’re supposed to send them down altogether. I like bagging yogurt. She ignores him. The line is building up, after all.

My mood brightens by the second. Maybe grocery shopping on Friday isn’t such a bad idea. This bagger is an asshole. First. Class. Down’s Syndrome or not, he is the coworker we’d all like to pound because he is simultaneously lazy, complaining, inept and unaware. Even better, no one can say anything because he’s (hushed voice) retarded. This is perverse, I know, but I’m laughing by the time I’m done here. His attitude continues to be foul. He starts caring less about placing the bags well in the cart because he’s too busy lecturing the checker about how three pizza boxes can fit in a bag not two. He rolls his eyes dramatically at her ignorance. She puts her head down, continues bagging and I think I saw her actually bite her tongue. The basket is almost overflowing. The job done. I try to make eye contact with my new favorite bagger but he’s fuming. I say thank you. He grunts dismissively still glaring at the checker.

Oh happy day. This has been the best grocery shopping experience ever. There aren’t too many new, cliché busting events in life. And me, I got one on a Friday afternoon at the grocery store.

Posted in America • Mind
Tags: Motherhood • Psychology