Life: Change

I have to tell you...

The other night I was in the supermarket, ShopRite or something like that. It was past midnight. Or no, maybe it was just after 11 pm, because Starbucks had just closed. The aisles were deserted, and the air conditioning was full blast. I picked out a few things for tomorrow's breakfast because I was resigned to eat at least one of my meals at home instead of out.

I took my collection to the cashier; a 40-something woman with reddish hair that looked more burnt than dyed. She seemed tired, but I was in the mood to talk.

I remarked on the renovations the store was undergoing. I over-enthusiastically declared that this was such significant change, that the look of the place would be completely altered. In my head I thought, why do I care about this? But my eyes beamed, and my smile was wide. "It's going to be like a whole new store!" I said.

She fell right into my exuberance.

"I know, they're changing everything. The other day I came in here after being gone for a week, and there were all new cashiers. I didn't know a single one of them," she told me earnestly, her lonely face posed in what I imagined was a reenactment of that moment.

I brought up the cliche topic of prices being too high over at Whole Foods, and said I was happy to come here now for the same healthy items at a better mark down.

She agreed. "I've been here 13 years," she told me. I tried to imagine her standing in that spot for 13 years, and wondered what the benefits had been.

She lowered her voice. "But I'm thinking of changing jobs. I'm thinking of moving to A&P."

I waited for the rimshot, but there was none. She sighed, and paused, my cat food poised midair above the brown paper bag she was filling. "I think it might be time for a change."

I realized in a breath what change meant. I cherished the moment, a woman with burnt red hair in a blue cashier's jacket, confiding in me before her manager, that it might be time to alter her path and fill grocery bags at the supermarket down the street.

"13 years is a long time," she said. Maybe she sat up nights worrying about this, smoking her last cigarette of the day as she looked out on her porch. What would this mean to her life? Could she do it?

"Do it," I said, beaming. She smiled back. "Make the change."

The cleaning men pushed large floor buffering machines behind us, and their grumble was relentless.

"Maybe," she said a bit wistfully. Then, "You have a good evening." And with a perfect cashier's smile, handed me my bags.