After my freshman year of college, I came home with a head full of knowledge and pockets full of…well, to be honest my pockets looked kind of sad. College is expensive. And I also wore a lot of skirts.
I needed a job, so I hit up my younger sister and she sweet talked Paula, the HR lady at the grocery store where she worked. The next day, I was hired. (This story has been both abridged and amended for brevity and levity)
The first order of business: learn how to bag groceries. Sounds easy, doesn’t it? Well… it is. And that is thing number one that I learned while working at a grocery store. Don’t get me started on how many cans one plastic bag can hold up. Or how sharp corners of cereal boxes can rip their way free if you try to overstuff a customer’s order. You probably already know. If you don’t, then you probably shop at Hy-Vee.
I spent the whole summer working at the end of the checkout lane. Sometimes I’d go outside and help old ladies load their groceries up. The front end managers would watch the registers like hawks, sending in bagging clerks every time they saw a customer struggling to decide if they could put fruit and vegetables together in the same bag.
The cashiers were elite. They’d greet the customers, punch in the four digit code for every fruit and vegetable without even looking at the stickers, all the while hurling groceries down the conveyor belt at a speed designed to give me a panic attack. My sister was a cashier, and I tried to be at the end of her lane as often as I could. She was incredible at her job. She was showing me up. I couldn’t wait to be a cashier. More hours, more responsibilities, and the chance to shine.
That is the second thing I learned: ambition is good. Ummm… and it gets you new jobs that may or may not be just as boring as the old job… with more pay.
My time as a cashier began the second summer of my college career. I learned how to count money. I learned how to pass groceries over the scanner so that they go beep. I learned what coupons are. It was incredible. Are you keeping track of everything I learned? I’m not.
The cold, sterile environment of the checkout lanes inspired much poetry. Mostly because I was often so bored that I couldn’t help but write. So, I’d use one of the crappy grocery store pens. Those pens are used to being held by the shaky hands of old ladies who don’t use debit cards. It is something else to watch a ninety year old take ten minutes to write a check. Anyway, I gave the pens something interesting to do. I’d scribble poetry on the back of receipt paper and stuff then in my pockets to await revision. Here is one such poem:
“Eulogy for a Monarch” You were never meant to die here, not beneath the foreign sky of gray air and cold light. Who knew your tiny wings could flutter so quickly in search of landing? There are no flowers here. Plastic shelves must come as a shock to your delicate feet, for you linger nowhere. The scents of nature offered you more than the cold greeting of the laundry aisle. And there, outside, beneath the sun, no beat of your wings was wasted. No, you were born for more than this. A chrysalis laments the loss of hope as slowly, but unavoidably, your tiny body seeks its fate beneath the tile canopy of a grocery store.
See? You can write poetry anywhere! About anything! At any time, really.
Unfortunately, the cold sterility couldn’t last. I needed more hours, and cashiers were much too plentiful. There weren’t many extra shifts to pick up. The front end managers were tired of my sister and I switching name tags to mess with them, so they suggested I move to the deli. (Actually I requested it, but that’s neither here nor there)
So the deli is how I began my days as a girl with a shiny new degree in music performance. The deli does not feel cold and sterile. The fluorescent lights are not so jarring behind the meat counter. Slicing meat and cheese all day does not feel clean. It isn’t clean. But slicing fresh deli meats is a noble cause. I cannot think of a nobler occupation than hand slicing Gouda for the subs at a graduation party.
I quickly learned, however, that the floor of a deli faces an inescapable barrage of meat, its juices, cheese, and other sandwich accompaniments. If you are a wearer of shoes, beware. They will become filled with the stench of walking over those terrible floors all day. You will be forced to watch your dogs try to lick your shoes every time you come home. You will have to designate your only pair of black, work-appropriate shoes as “meat shoes.”
I did learn a lot about cheese and charcuterie during my stint in the delicatessen. We made lots of charcuterie trays for parties, and I still have lots of the pairings we used in my repertoire. I do not, however, have the funds to be making fancy cheese and meat plates on the regular. Though I do miss the dried apricots and fig jam and goat cheese and prosciutto and spicy capocollo.
The final thing I learned was how to make a giant tub of pico de gallo salsa. I’d go grab a couple dozen tomatoes, a bunch of red onions, jalapeños, fresh cilantro, limes, and salt, and bring them back to the deli to begin. We had a good chopper with which we diced everything up really well. We put it in a huge tub and mixed it with gloved hands. The secret? A lot of salt. And if you tasted tested it and it seemed to need more salt- step away from the shaker! Instead, a little dash of red wine vinegar deepens the flavor.
My coworker, affectionately nicknamed “Z,” gave me that trick. I still use the Hy-Vee method on my own homemade pico de gallo. Another coworker recommended a funny YouTuber that I still enjoy watching. Another recommended Ursula Le Guin’s books to me. I read one and am not particularly inclined to read more. But I’m thankful for the way the close quarters and late night dishwashing made it easy to become friends with unlikely people.
I left the job in favor of pretty clothes and shoes that my dogs wouldn’t want to eat. Banking called to me. I’d work banker’s hours until the birth of my son. Then I traded in the pretty clothes and 9-5 shift for 24/7 childcare. I still wear pretty clothes but they are constantly in danger of being spit up on. I guess there are worst things. Meat shoes are definitely one of them.
This made me laugh several times. You didn’t mention the onion chopping method. I still use it!
I always think you worked at HyVee first, lol