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Paper In Plastic



By Matt Gallant



It seemed to never end, the infinite pattern of the humming scanner, the huge train of people, the stone stress that sat comfortably in the pit of his heart. He felt like an apple core rotting in the icy air. He wanted everything to quit his cursed grocer job at Bohregard’s Foods. But he knew deep down, he’d be here all the same tomorrow.



Had he taken his pills today? It seemed like a thick fog to his memory, the recent past did. The people passed, shifted their position from on deck to the batters’ box. The lady was incredibly short, pygmy almost, and looked like she would shrivel up into some sort or raisin. She had old hair with the slight tint of olive green. It reminded him of dead grass. He rang her up robotically: two rolls of Scott toilet paper, a box of Tampax, Herbal Essences shampoo, and a carton or Virginia Slims, His throat shuddered at the hideous thought of what she’d be doing with the items.



“Paper in plastic!” the old hag demanded with an impatient crack of the voice. It was more like the crack of the whip in Peter’s eyes, and he groaned with irritation. He felt that insatiable instinct to burst like a balloon too full of helium. The doctors ad told him to suppress himself in times like these. He had been to Fitzgerald’s Asylum 14 times this year, a personal record.



“Have a nice day” he growled through his teeth. Those words were the four words he always had to say, which emphasized the bleak superiority of the customer. Peter, with all his efforts to reach their level, was always, in the end, forced to his lower level. He hated service, and he hated people, and he hated repetition.



The next customer shifted up. It was Mrs. Mackenzie Michaels, the owner’s wife. Peter had always had a deep crush on her, but who wouldn’t if you saw her fair ageless face? If you knew her as closely and intimately as he did? Yet, she was ashamed. She knew where she stood in the hierarchy compared to him, and pretended not to recognize him. He rang her up, bagging her stuff pathetically.



“Oh, I wanted paper in plastic,” she suddenly announced arrogantly. He groaned irritated, just as he did before. He noticed the dead repetition again, the faceless customers with all the same expectations and wants.



“Have a nice day…Have a nice fucking day!” He exploded. Peter had snapped. The balloon had finally tolerated all the helium it could. He lunged at her. She shreaked in terror and ran for the office. Peter lay on the floor in tears. Warner, the owner, ran out in frustration. He grabbed the phone and pressed the speed dial for Fitzgerald’s Asylum. He then grabbed his wife protectively.



“You sick fuck! You’re fired from my store as of this moment,” he said. The asylum workers showed up, and Peter cried the whole way there, wailing the same four words he always had to say.