Sunday, September 26, 2010

All of my childhood dreams came true…

My experience at Ultra prepared me for the next notch on my career belt. Every 2 weeks or so, our cupboards would start to get really bare. When you opened the snack cabinet and all you saw were those dehydrated fruit snacks Aunt Irma had given the family 2 Christmases ago, you knew Mom was going to be looking for an Ultra volunteer soon. I usually tried to lay low during these times, but my propensity for staying indoors surrounded by books made me a sitting duck. As soon as I heard my mom slamming cabinet doors and talking to herself about coupons, I knew what was coming.

Sometimes I was able to put my brother in the line of fire without him ever knowing it. All it took was the mention of a money-making opportunity. “Hey Chris, I think I saw a quarter behind the tv. I would have picked it up myself, but it was too hard to get at.” It was like waving a raw steak in front of a hungry lion. He couldn’t stay away from a challenge like that. Chris’ navy blue combination lock safe was always full because he was always working. The kid has been 40 since he was 8. I should have felt guilty. It was almost too easy…but I’d do anything to avoid going to Ultra.

Ultra was a big, warehouse-like grocery mega-store that was big on savings and low on frills. Cement floors, 12 foot high shelves, and NO BAG BOYS. In order to make their wares cheaper, Ultra did not provide a person to bag up your groceries…it was self-serve, do-it-yourself hell. When I first heard about this place, I felt a little twinge of excitement at being able to arrange the food in the bags however I’d like. I imagined people walking by, admiring my work. This would be a giant game of Tetris…or Dr. Mario…it would be great!

The reality was something much different.

As I may have eluded to in previous chapters, I am ga ga over organizing….I don’t care what it is…if there is a way to categorize it and separate it into bins, I am all over it. This is what the allure of bagging was…unfortunately, the art of organization does not fit well with fast moving conveyor belts.

The first time I tried my hand at bagging, my mom nodded at me confidently and reminded me not to put the soap or cleaning products in with the food. I nodded back, cracking my knuckles as I got several bags ready. I started off okay. I would make up little songs in my head as I filled bags expertly. Eggs, milk, fruit roll ups, chips! If it’s too full the bag rips!! First you go high, then you go low! Put the cans in a row! Some will be in the fridge and some on the shelf! Then you’ll be eaten by Lynn, Larry, Katie, Chris or myself! I’d arrange everything beautifully in brown paper sacks, humming my made up tunes. Things were going great...at first.

After about 2-3 bags, things started to get ugly. Food was getting backed up. Bacon was flying off the conveyor belt. Bread was being smashed in between a carton of orange juice and a rump roast. A bag of grapes was bursting open and grapes were rolling down the belt loose. My mother stood calmly at the check writing stand, pretending not to notice the Armageddon happening only inches away.

I eventually got control of the situation…thanks to a mentally impaired stock boy who noticed what was happening. He ran over and gave me a few tips before he spit on his hand and offered it to me. I shook the slimy hand and wondered where I had gone wrong. I was getting schooled by a kid that was handi-capable (that’s how we had learned to describe kids with special needs at school. My 6th grade teacher, Mrs Wittman, told us to call them handi-CAPABLE because they were just as ABLE as us to do God’s work. It wouldn’t be until years later that I realized NO ONE says this…).

I dreaded the grocery store after that. My palms would start to sweat at the mere mention of it. I’d do anything to get out of going, but once my mother realized that her grocery store guilt trips didn’t have as much of an impact on her other two offspring, she decided she’d have to groom me into a top notch bagger. She started giving me pep talks on the car ride over to Ultra. She’d remind me that I needed to have my game face on. I couldn’t take so much time arranging things and I should probably skip the song writing. I needed to take care of business! I could do it! Several more trips to Ultra made me into a bagging artist. I could bag like the wind, and I wound up loving it.

When the “Help Wanted” sign went up in the front window of Sterk’s (the more expensive grocery store closer to our home…they had baggers), I knew I had to apply.

I got hired a few weeks after my 16th birthday. It was summer in Indiana, I had just gotten my driver’s license, and I had my own car. Life was just about perfect. Getting the job at the grocery store was like finding an onion ring in your fries at Burger King. I couldn’t believe how well things were going!

Actually the car was a hand-me-down from my older sister Katie. It was a ride that came to be known as the Blue Beast. It was a powder blue Plymouth Horizon hatchback. It looked like a go-cart and drove like one, too. You didn’t need a key to start it, and the bottom scraped the ground when it drove over bumps in the road. It didn’t have a/c, but with all the windows down, it wasn’t too bad. I pulled into the Sterk’s parking lot a few minutes before my shift. It was still early in the day, but it was already humid and sticky outside. I took a quick peek in the rear view mirror to make sure all my pimples were sufficiently covered with tinted oxy and pressed powder. My face glowed orange and I noticed that I was starting to sweat. I realized I had better hurry up and go inside before my fake tan melted off. I pulled my Bonne Bell lipgloss out of my pocket and swiped it over my lips in one sloppy motion. Then I kicked the door open and heading toward the store.

I felt a gush of cool air as the automatic double doors chimed open. I was met almost immediately by a girl in her late 20’s with hair like Farrah Fawcet (when she was on Charlie’s Angels). Considering it was 1995, I was wondering if she went to much trouble to achieve this look. Almost as if she had read my mind, she introduced herself as Angela Chasby, HEAD cashier, before she started explaining how long it takes to do her hair in the morning and how she had almost been late today because of it. As I tried to figure out a tactful way to ask her why she takes so long to do her hair, I spotted a magazine featuring current, popular hairstyles. Perfect! I was just about to grab the magazine when a pimply boy who didn’t look much older than me ran up behind Angela, putting his hands over her eyes as he conspiratorially instructed me to “shhh!!”. I studied the dirt under his nails as I watched Angela’s face transform into a mask of shy pleasure. She lifted the boy’s hands with her own and whirled around as she shrieked. She turned back to me, “This is our resident prankster, Randy. Randy, Erin. Erin, Randy.” I watched as Randy took my hand in his and brought it to his lips, doing an awkward sort of half curtsey at the same time. I tried not to outwardly shudder as I smiled politely at him. “Fresh meat…” Randy looked confident as he blatantly looked me over, and I was relieved when an overhead voice announced that there was a cleanup in aisle 9. “No rest for the Workers…ain’t that what they say?” Randy grinned at us and took off in the other direction.
"It's for the"wicked"...no rest for the wicked!" I said this outloud, but no one heard me.

Angela laughed and said, “Don’t mind him. He’s pretty nice once you get to know him.” I smiled and said he seemed like a good guy (total lie). Angela handed me an apron and a name tag. She showed me the break room and showed me how to sneak magazines back there without paying for them. I made a mental note to suggest the hair magazine to her later.

Pretty soon, I was finished with my training, and I got my very first drawer. Images of childhood games with Keri Kutrandy and Kelly Lipperdony flashed in my head. Playing grocery store used to be one of my favorite games, and today I was getting to do it for real! I smoothed my apron and smiled encouragingly to customers as they approached the checkout area. No one came to my checkout stand. I sprayed Windex on the conveyor belt, making sure my stand was impeccably clean. I rearranged the magazines, gum and candy. I counted the money in my drawer, stacking the bills neatly with all the presidential faces pointing the same way. Finally an elderly woman that was dwarfed by her massive cart wheeled toward me.

I ran out to help the woman, smiling generously. Instead of appreciating my humanitarianism, she squawked, “I’ve got it! You just worry about your job missy!” I was shocked, rebuked. I backed away hurriedly and knocked over a stand of mini balloons. The lady looked annoyed. I picked up the stand and placed it back where it belonged. I ran behind the cash register and started scanning the groceries. I took a deep breath and regained my composure after about 8 items. Then the old hag got out her coupons. Shit. Angela didn’t show me how to do coupons. I looked around frantically. I needed help! Why wasn’t anyone around to help me?? It was my first day, for God’s sakes!

I smiled sheepishly at grandma and said, “It’s my first day, and well, you see….” She interrupted me and said, “Fuck! Don’t they even train their people anymore?” I was so shocked by the F bomb coming out of her sweet grandma mouth that I was speechless. I desperately looked around again. Please! Someone notice me! Grandma was staring me down as I pitted out my starched white button down shirt. “Carol!” I hissed at the checkout girl next to me. She ignored me as she chewed her gum and examined her electric blue nail polish. I said her name again. She turned around, popping a bubble and looking put out. “What?” I made a waving motion to indicate that I wanted her to come over. She just stared at me. “Come here!” She walked over and looked at grandma. “Oh…Hi Mrs. Hutchins. How are you today?” Grandma looked pissed. “I’d be a lot fuckin better if you guys trained your girls.” Carol looked unfazed. She nodded her head and snapped her gum.

Without asking she took the coupons and expertly keyed in codes. Grandma looked pleased and informed us she was going to need help out. “Perhaps you’d be able to go and fetch the boy.” I looked at Carol nervously. Fetch the boy?? “She means Randy. I saw him restocking shelves in aisle 3 earlier. He’s probably still there.”

I nodded and power walked over to aisle 3. No Randy. Great. Suddenly, I heard boxes falling and I looked behind me. Three boxes of Mrs. Grass soup had mysteriously fallen to the floor. I walked over and looked at the empty shelf where they had been a few seconds earlier and I was met with Randy’s face staring back at me. I was startled and I let out a little scream. This delighted Randy to no end. I rolled my eyes. “There’s some mean old lady up front asking for you, BOY.” Randy took off running. Apparently he knows who I’m talking about.

I took my time getting back to my register, hoping I didn’t run into mean old Mrs. Hutchins again. By the time, I returned, my register area was empty and Angela was hovering nearby. “Where were you?” I gaped at her. “I went to get Randy for Mrs. Hutchins and…” She nodded as if she already knew this. “You need to come right back. You can’t leave your drawer unattended. If it’s short money at the end of the day, you’re responsible for that!” I swallowed, feeling small.

The rest of the day went smoothly. I actually enjoyed it. This job wasn’t going to be all that bad. I started to think that I might have a future in the grocery store business…. until Lollapalooza.

My friend Sarah was a concert hound. Whenever any band came to town, Sarah knew about it. She was always organizing groups of people to go to concerts in the nearby surrounding areas. Most Friday nights I slept over at Sarah’s house. I had been working at Sterk’s for about a month when one such Friday transpired as usual. However that Saturday morning wasn’t like any other. As I opened my eyes, I saw Sarah standing in front of her full-length mirror, studying her outfit. “What’s going on?” I croaked.

She turned around with her hand on her hip. “Don’t tell me you forgot.” Just then, our friend and Sarah’s neighbor, Jenny, burst through her bedroom door. “Lollapalooza, here we come! Erin, why are you still in bed?” I threw the covers back and started looking through Sarah’s closet for something to wear. I settled on a pair of jean shorts and a green tank top with little flowers on the shoulders. I brushed my hair and put on some mascara. I heard a car pulling into the driveway. At the same time, Sarah and Jenny exclaimed, “Joe!” I followed them down the stairs and saw Joe in his dad’s old Lincoln with Kathy Mayfield in the front seat next to him.

Sarah, Jenny and I got in the backseat and Joe headed toward the highway as he lit up a cigarette. I pulled my hair back into a ponytail as the wind whipped through the car. The tinny sound of the Violent Femmes could barely be heard over the sound of the rushing wind. I laughed as Sarah got a mouthful of Jenny’s hair. I looked out the window, enjoying the cool air on my face, and I saw Sterk’s over Sarah’s left shoulder.

Uh oh. A revelation.

“HEY! Turn the radio down!” Joe rolled up his window and shouted,
“What?!” I told him to pull over at the Shell Gas Station on the right. He does, and we all sit in the silent car for a minute, everyone staring at me, wondering what is happening. “I was supposed to work today.” Sarah looked confused.
“What time?” I glanced at Joe’s clock radio. It read 11:02 am.
“1:00.” Sarah let out a rush of air and said, “That’s plenty of time! You can still call off.” I smiled. “Could I? What should I say?” Joe turned around. “Just say you have a family emergency. It works everytime.” He said this with such authority, I couldn’t argue. I got out of the car and approached the pay phone. I picked up the dangling yellow pages and looked for Sterk’s under Stores, Grocery. I found the number and dialed. When I heard a voice saying, "Sterk's, where the customer is always number one, how may I help you?", I asked to talk to the manager. As soon as she was on the line, I blurted out, “This is Erin Orth. I can’t come in today. There’s been a family emergency.” I was met with silence. I chewed my lip and waited. When she spoke, the manager sounded as if she did not believe me one bit. She asked for details. This I was not prepared for. Why hadn’t I practiced?? I stuttered and said something about going to Wisconsin to help with the family farm. ....the family farm! This is the best I could come up with?! Then she did something no boss should ever be allowed to do...she asked to speak to my mother.

That’s when I knew I was dead.

I told the manager to hold on and I ran back to the car. “She wants to talk to my mom.” Jenny’s eyes bulged. Sarah swallowed. Joe exhaled smoke slowly and said,
“You’re fucked.” Kathy didn’t even flinch. She stayed cool as a cucumber. “I’ll do it.” We all stared as she got out of the car and went over to the payphone. She talked into the receiver for a few minutes and came back. “She wants to talk to you again.” I stood, frozen. “Hurry up!” I stumbled forward and picked up the phone. “Hello?”

“Either you are here when your shift begins or you do not have to bother coming in again.”

Shit...what did Kathy say to her??

How could I have forgotten to get this critical information? I was messing this up on so many levels. “Am I making myself clear?” The manager’s voice was harsh, unrelenting, shattering my internal thought bubbles with her razor sharp resolve. I gulped. “yes.” She grunted, sounding pleased. “Ok. So should we expect to see you at 1:00 then?” I paused for a few seconds, thinking about the scanning gun I loved so much. When I answered, I felt like I was no longer a girl…I was a woman. “NOPE!” As I plunged the receiver down, I felt like a new me was blossoming…a new rebellious me…and I liked it.

Lollapalooza that day was just about the most fun I’ve ever had at a concert. Sarah and I got some older guys to buy us beer. Jenny snuck past security and got backstage. Kathy got her bra ripped off while she was crowd surfing and Joe almost got busted smoking a joint with a group of middle-aged hippies.

Everything was great until I got home. Somehow the news of my job loss had already made it into the Orth household and my mother was none too pleased. “I can never go there again! I’m so ashamed.” I hung my head and muttered, “We don’t even go there anyway. We go to Ultra.” Wrong move. Talking back only enraged my mother more. Talking back only enraged my mother more. She started scrubbing the counters with vigor as she muttered something about me being "a sassbox". My dad backed her up from the living room. “Don’t talk back to your mother!” I stared at the porcelain duck sitting on the kitchen counter and shrugged my shoulders. “Well, I already did it. It’s done. So what can I do?” I started to get up and my mom pushed me back down. “I’ll tell you what you’re going to do, young lady. Tomorrow morning, you are getting up bright and early and you are going down to that grocery store to apologize. You hear me?” I groaned. I could tell she was not going to budge so I conceded, promising to go in the morning.

The next day I did as I was told. I drove down to Sterk’s, hoping the manager I spoke to yesterday was not working today. No such luck. As soon as I crossed the threshold she was on me with a smirk on her face. “Come here today to beg for your job back? Well you’re not going to get it.” I suppressed the urge to kick her in her big fat shins. Instead, I said, “I’m sorry for the way I quit. It was irresponsible of me.” Her smile got bigger. “Well, you’re still not getting your job back.” I was infuriated that I should have to endure this embarrassing display so I turned around and headed for the door. On my way out, under my breath, I said, “I only came because my mom made me…” I wanted to say more, but decided to take the high road.

Later that night, my mom asked me how it went, and I told her, recalling the manager’s expression and tone of voice bitterly. I expected her to tell me that I got what I deserved, but she didn't. My mother surprised me that night. Instead, she got mad right along with me. “How dare she treat you that way when you were just trying to do the right thing??” Then, more to herself than me, she said, "How dare she ruin this life lesson for my daughter!"

The next day my mom went into the store and gave all the managers a piece of her mind. After that, no Orth ever set foot in Sterk’s again…. not that we ever went there much before anyway…it was, afterall, the “fancy grocery store that could afford their own bagboys"…and everyone knew that no one bagged groceries better than me anyway.

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