In recent weeks, the supermarket around our corner has seen something of a turnover in its staff of check-out cashiers. One new member of this team is a little lady named Consuela. This petite, elderly woman has checked my groceries out a few times, by this point, and now evidently feels entirely comfortable chatting with me, which I’m completely cool with. I’m pretty goddamn chatty myself.
A couple of weeks back, the wife and I had been planning on having some neighbors over for a few drinks, so I was dispatched to procure a few essentials. I hit the nearby liquor store first and got a bottle of white wine, then popped over to our supermarket, where I proceeded to grab a six-pack, some chips, some olives and maybe some cocktail napkins. With the wine bottle still tucked under my arm, I brought these items to the register where Consuela was waiting for me.
“Looks like you’re having a party,” she sighed as she was ringing me up. “Oh, just some of our neighbors,” I responded. She looked up at me expectantly as if to suggest that I might consider inviting her, too. “Oh, it’s not just you?” came her retort, augmented with a coquettish fluttering of her eyelashes. I laughed … not knowing quite what to do with that.
Last night, meanwhile, I was again back amidst the aisles of our supermarket, grabbing some makings for quesadillas (Oliver is perfecting his Mexican culinary skills) and, again, yet another six-pack of beer. As before, Consuela was waiting for me, doubtlessly ready to dispatch another surreal observation.
When she got to my beer -– a regular item of purchase for me – she asked to see my I.D. Having now bought an ill-considered quantity of the beverage in question from this establishment, I might have assumed that she could eschew this particular step of the process, but Consuela is either ardently bound to protocol or possibly just forgetful. Or just really fuckin' bored.
“I’m 55,” I said, handing my card to her, “but I’m truly flattered that you think I look so young.”
Handing my card back, she again looked up at me. “Well, your face looks like the face of someone in their forties, but this…” she exclaimed while waving an accusing finger at my midsection, “yes, …. this certainly tells me you’re into your fifties.”
“Wait, WHAT?” I was both highly amused and taken somewhat aback. I laughed, finding her blunt assessment almost kind of endearingly refreshing.
“I’m sorry,” she continued as she handed me my change, “I just have to tell the truth.”
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