Horror at Register No. Four

Do you talk to checkout people? I do.

I don't know about you, but I can't help but feel empathy every time I see a forlorn youngster barking for a price-check, shoulders so drooped that you would think she's giving a piggy-back to an invisible Kirstie Alley. There is nothing she would rather do than jump up on the conveyor belt and boot boxes of Bratz dolls into customer's stupid faces. But instead, something compels her to display a shit-eating grin and ask, always with the utmost sincerity and interest, "How are you?"

I'll tell you how I am. I just spent thirty-five minutes navigating a store that was designed by an autistic contestant from America's Next Top Model. Why are batteries and toilet paper in the same aisle? Is there some kind of new vibrating toilet roll I don't know about? And how about this register situation? It's 11pm. The only people shopping now are single twenty-somethings who just want to get their cookie-dough back home in time to get stoned and catch Letterman. So why do you have eight staff working on the regular registers, while the so called "express" lanes are manned only by yourself and a zombie in a red tie. (Seriously, what's that guy's deal anyway? Does the government have some kind of "flesh-eaters employment scheme" going? Jesus, at least clean up the brain-matter on his chin.) And what's with the music? If I wanted to listen to Billy Joel, I would have my headphones on, wouldn't I? Here's a magnifying glass. Get a clue.

But instead I just smile back and say, "fine, thanks", you piss-weak douche. That is, until recently.

It started off small.

"Hi, how are you?" they would ask.

My reply, "Eh, I'm okay." No reaction.

Then, "how's it going?"

"Terrible", I would state bluntly. This actually got a genuine smile, and sometimes even a "yeah, me too".

I figured at the very least I was giving this poor soul hope that, yes, there are people out there who don't turn into complete robots in public situations.

Then, finally, my confidence got the better of me, as it so often does, culminating in what can only be described as a horrifying display.

"Hi, how are you?" she asked, as she hovered my cookie-dough over the scanner.

"Fuckin' shit!" I bellowed with a grin.

I swear, even Billy Joel went silent.

She looked up at me, slack jawed, as if I had just grown a second head with Paris Hilton's face on it. I could do nothing else but imitate the same shit-eating grin I had been greeted with so many times before. Now I knew why they did it. Utter shame.

I didn't turn around, but I could sense the line of people behind me displaying the same gaping maw and incredulous eyebrows as the checkout girl. Finally, someone, I don't know who, it could have been me, but someone, thank Christ, cleared their throat. Billy Joel resumed wailing on the piano and time, at last, resumed.

Blushing like a girl who's just been loudly sworn at in front of a whole store of people, the checkout girl bagged my grocery and I promptly swiped my card without another single exchange of words.

I left the store more crestfallen than embarrassed. Any hope I had of tearing down society's insistence on bland politeness was dashed against the cold, hard, white linoleum of Safeway, Preston.

I shop at Coles now.

The moral? Never turn your back on Kirstie Alley.