Credit or Debit?

I tentatively step out of my mother's Ford Explorer onto the pavement. It's mid-December, and mom's words of encouragement are drowned out by a frigid breeze. I step inside the store vestibule, grateful for the heat, and walk through the sliding doors to the service counter. One girl I don't recognize is already standing nearby, watching the checkout lanes with a frantically scanning eye. Judging from the unstained smock under her arm, she's a new employee- most likely here for the cashier training I was asked to attend.

I realize I've forgotten to punch in, and walk across the lanes to the hand scanner. I'm not new- I've already been working as a service clerk for a few months, and I've familiarized myself with most of the staff and the way the store functions. I applied for a job as a cashier initially, but somehow I got placed on service duty instead. The store's been hurting for reliable cashiers for the holiday season, though, and a week ago the owner asked me if I was interested in training as a cashier. Heck yeah- I'd rather be pushing presidents in a warm store than pushing shopping carts outside though the whole winter. At least, that was the way I saw it.

I pass by the new girl, who's still desperate for any visual clues she can find from the other cashiers, and lean against the counter. Analisa, the service counter clerk who's been with the store longer than anybody can remember, turns to me.

"You ready to be a cashier, Zoot?"

"I hope so. Memorizing all the produce codes is what I'm worried about the most."

"You'll get them in no time. Everybody does sooner or later."

"I know, but that still leaves me looking like an idiot for a good week or two, holding up customers and pissing off my workmates because I can't remember some stupid number for tomatoes. Shopping carts and trash bags don't have feelings- if you're too busy to deal with them for five minutes, they don't get angry and complain."

"If you want to push carts around in 10 inches of snow then be my guest. I've seen kids catch pneumonia out there."

I turn and face the rows of cashiers at work. Analisa was like a mother figure for the entirety of the store- at times patronizing, but usually sympathetic and easygoing. Everyone in the store knew her, and she undoubtedly knew the most about the store itself. I sighed and stared at the floor, secretly hoping that I wouldn't work here for as long as she had.

Donna, another old employee, approaches the counter.

"Hey Zoot, looks like I'm going to be teaching you and Tara here the basics tonight."

The new girl looks around, immediately seeming to hang on Donna's every word. Good God, I think to myself. She won't last two months.

"Now, I can teach you guys the basics, like counting money and shit, but most of what you'll learn will come through experience. It's like riding a bike- it takes a while to learn, but once you do you won't forget it."

Donna takes us through the store and points out where most of the merchandise is located, and what items we have to memorize codes for. Aside form the actual codes, I know most of this already- anything without a bar code or price sticker has to be in your head with a number. Tara already seems overwhelmed by the vast amount of produce items she has to attach a number to. In fact, she seems overwhelmed by just about everything.

After the tour we both get large, sexy blue buttons with the "I'm new so please don't get mad if I fuck your order up to hell" message on them. Donna then sticks us tandem on one register and watches as we ring up our first customers.

"Don't worry about the codes for now, I'll just tell you them," she says. "Concentrate on where the buttons are and being polite to the customers."

But so far it seems that most customers have taken heed of our noob buttons and avoided our lane like the plague. However, this hasn't stopped Tara from having an emotional breakdown.

"Look at all these codes," she wails, practically in tears. "How are we supposed to be able to memorize these without screwing anything up in the meantime?"

"You'll pick up the common ones in time," Donna replies. I believe her- any monkey can memorize a pattern with enough time. I switch places and man the register while Tara takes a breather, and ring up my first customer's order. No produce items here.

I stare at the monitor at his totals as he pulls out some plastic. Everything adds up, and I tentatively ask the most significant question in my juvenile life so far: "Credit, or Debit?"