Sunday Shorts - The Duty Manager

The Duty Manager.

(A Sunday Short by M.E. Born)

I checked in my pocket. Nothing. It must have slipped off when I put my coat on. It had to be out by the car. I shifted the milk bottle to hang from a different finger; my hand was going numb under the weight and cold of it.

I looked at the line ahead of me. The convey-a-belt must have been broken or something, the groceries hadn’t moved an inch. I looked down the row of checkouts – their lines were even longer, especially the express aisle. I needed to get out and look. It had to be there. It just had to be. But what if it wasn’t? Where would I even look? Curse my stupid, aimless browsing. I’d been in nearly every store in the whole shopping centre. And for what? To stand in a check-out for twenty minutes just to buy a bottle of milk.

I leaned forward to look at who was working my checkout. A guy. Typical. He was moving in slow motion. Didn’t he know people had better things to do then stand in his queue all day? I felt sick. Mum was right. I’d lost too much weight since it happened. That was understandable; I’d barely eaten since. I should have had it resized. But I couldn’t bear the thought of them chopping out a piece. It was all I had left; I couldn’t let them take any of it. But now it was gone. Gone. Entirely. I could have given a piece to save me losing it altogether. It would be there - it had to be. God wouldn’t let me lose it. He wouldn’t le me lose the only thing I still had left of him - the thing that symbolized everything I had and lost; the promise of our life together -destroyed. 

I leaned forward to take another look. He was chatting – chatting - with the old lady. Since when did chatting with the customers become part of the job? Every other time I’ve been in this store I’ve been given “elevator” stares and grunts. I was ok with that really – you pay more for cheery service. I tried to mentally picture the price that had been on the shelf under the milk. Had it been just a little more expensive today? Had they added a cheer tax already?

I puffed breath out my cheeks as I saw the “service” light go on under the check-out number. Number 4. No wonder. Four was some kind of terrible luck - according to the Chinese anyway. Of course I didn’t really believe that. The number 4 hadn’t had anything to do with the luck that night six months ago. In fact, I’m pretty sure everything had been eights that night.

A bean-stalk of a teenager approached the checkout for the price check. It seemed this old lady had picked up every item in the store that didn’t have a barcode sticker. Or maybe she’d peeled them off as she walked around the store hoping she could get the item for free if it had no barcode. Well she was having no such luck with this check-out operator. He knew the rules. He really looked too old to be working a check-out. He had to be mid-twenties at least. They never let anyone over 19 work the check-outs, the directors wouldn’t see their billion dollar profit at the end of the financial year if they had to pay regular wages. No, this guy had to be a duty manager or something. The bean-pole kid seemed scared of him.

All my fingers were pink and shrivelled now. If she would just finish unloading her trolley, I could get close enough to put the milk down.

What if someone saw it and picked it up? Would they take it to Centre Management? Maybe. Or maybe they’d just pocket-it. It would be worth something – quite a bit. I never knew how much he paid for it, but I know he worked hard to save the money for it.

The old lady finished unloading and pushed her trolley down to the end of the checkout to the fifty bags that sat filled and waiting there. She had a lot of groceries. Surely a woman of her age didn’t still have to feed a family? Mr Duty Manager finished packing the last of the bread loaves in and then sat the egg carton carefully on top. I plonked the milk bottle on to the grimy, black strip. The man directly in front of me only had a few things, but it was fresh produce – that meant looking up codes and weighing things.

I pressed my lips tightly and tried to calm myself, just like Rani showed me - slow deep breaths. It would be by the car, simple as that, I shouldn’t be wasting my time worrying.

There was some kind of problem with the elderly lady’s card. She produced another one from her worn, black purse. It was declined too. She shook her head and went searching through the compartments of her purse again. Maybe looking for cash, maybe looking for some magic credit card that would actually have funds available. She put her hand up to her face as tears began to slip out the corners of her eyes. I felt bad for her. I obviously hadn’t been too far off with the idea about the barcode stickers. Mr Duty Manager looked uncomfortable, declined funds obviously weren’t something he dealt with regularly. He looked over his shoulder and then pulled out his own wallet. He took out his own credit card and stuck it into the end of the machine. Before I realized what was happening, he’d put through the transaction and sent the old lady on her way. I felt myself gaping. Mum would say “shut your mouth before the flies get in”. But…did he seriously just pay for her groceries…out of his own money? The man in front had seen it happen too. He made some comment that I couldn’t hear, but it made Mr. Duty Manager turn red and shuffle on the spot a little.

Surprisingly, he knew all the fresh produce codes off by heart, he didn’t need to look up a single one and the health-freak was through the checkout in seconds.          

I pushed my bottle of milk up next to the scanner. There was no point making him press the button just for one milk bottle to take a ride.

“How’s your day been?” He asked as he picked the bottle up and flicked it across the infer-red hole of the scanner.

Normally I would have just said “Oh fine,” or something equally inane.

“I lost something.” I said. “Jewellery. I need to get back to my car.”

“Sure.” He took my cash that had found its own way out of my wallet, pulled the change out of the cash drawer and pushed it back in.

“That’s three dollars, and twenty-five”

“Thanks”

“I’m off work soon I could help you look for it.”

“Um…I…don’t think so.”

“Well, you should report it…to the service desk. If anyone finds it they’ll bring it there. Leave your contact details and we’ll be able to get it back to you.”

“Thanks.” I knew he was right but I was already running for the car. It had to be there.

 (Hour limit)

© M.E. Born, 2012.

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