My Secret Identity

I went to the grocery store tonight. It amuses me that when I walk into a supermarket, the staff sees only what I want them to see -- a 30 year old, schoolmarmish woman with faded brown hair, glasses, and concealing clothing that leaves not just a lot, but in fact everything to the imagination. Little do they suspect that this mediocre female is in fact -- THE BASHAS' STORE #7 AND DISTRICT #4 1994 PACK-OFF CHAMPION.

I hide it well, you see.

As THE BASHAS' STORE #7 AND DISTRICT #4 1994 PACK-OFF CHAMPION enters the store, she abandons the cares and concerns that plague her everyday persona. Here, she enters her own true milieu, observing -- and judging -- every aspect of the store around her. She begins in produce, noting that the new brown-gray pseudo-wood flooring does give the store an olden-timey feel, but she frowns disapprovingly at the two heads of cauliflower idling on the ground. She condescends to return them to the pyramid of vegetables from whence they rolled, but has only a snort of disgust for the mess of broken and bleeding green bell peppers around the corner. After all, the nicest olden-timey floor in the world cannot redeem the shoddy "work" habits of the staff.

The quality of grocery store employees has surely fallen off since the days when THE BASHAS' STORE #7 AND DISTRICT #4 1994 PACK-OFF CHAMPION graced the check-out stand.

THE BASHAS' STORE #7 AND DISTRICT #4 1994 PACK-OFF CHAMPION wanders the aisles, noting where the shelves haven't been faced in days, where the floors need to be swept, where end displays are lacking in balance and aesthetic appeal.

If she happens to buy a gallon of milk, she'll always check the expiration date on the surrounding gallons -- just in case.

It is at the check-out that THE BASHAS' STORE #7 AND DISTRICT #4 1994 PACK-OFF CHAMPION is most at home, of course. Noting that her cart contains 16 items, she virtuously goes to the "All Sizes" checking lane, never dreaming of trying to sneak into the "15 Items or Less" line. Besides, as well as taking a stand for honesty in check-outs, she would never dream of patronizing a lane dedicated to poor grammar. Facing the check-out clerk with a serene expression, her lip upturned ever-so-slightly to convey a friendly, but not too friendly, attitude, THE BASHAS' STORE #7 AND DISTRICT #4 1994 PACK-OFF CHAMPION waits to be greeted. Unsurprisingly, the check-out clerk ignores THE BASHAS' STORE #7 AND DISTRICT #4 1994 PACK-OFF CHAMPION in favor of chatting with the baggers. Though THE BASHAS' STORE #7 AND DISTRICT #4 1994 PACK-OFF CHAMPION knows that she could garner far better treatment if she were to reveal her true identity, she chooses not to exploit the sanctity of her calling; let her be treated as if she were a regular person. She does permit herself the indulgence of directing a stoney, icey face at the check-out clerk, diverting it only to take note of the ever-growing heap of groceries piling up at the far end of the stand, clearly yearning to be handled by a competent bagger -- a creature THE BASHAS' STORE #7 AND DISTRICT #4 1994 PACK-OFF CHAMPION has yet to have encountered in Chicago. THE BASHAS' STORE #7 AND DISTRICT #4 1994 PACK-OFF CHAMPION aims a knowing glance and a keenly pointed eyebrow at the night shift manager (a not-uncomely man, a man for whom THE BASHAS' STORE #7 AND DISTRICT #4 1994 PACK-OFF CHAMPION may have spared an idle daydream or two -- visions of herself and him squirming and thrashing in the break-room, wantonly thrusting against a row of carts, or writhing on the conveyor belt until overcome by the fumes of burning rubber and passion -- but for whom she now feels disdain, the only emotion she can spare for a man whose apathy toward his sacred duties is clearly reflected in his poorly trained staff). A fleeting look of shame crosses his face, and a yearning for what he now knows can never be, but rather than confront his recalcitrant baggers, he takes refuge behind the Customer Service desk, with only the pain and humiliation of his lonely, loveless future as company. This was not unexpected to THE BASHAS' STORE #7 AND DISTRICT #4 1994 PACK-OFF CHAMPION, but still -- she regrets his actions.

What to do then? The groceries remain unsacked. Will this be the night, the moment when at last she can cast aside her bland disguise and reveal herself? Will THE BASHAS' STORE #7 AND DISTRICT #4 1994 PACK-OFF CHAMPION bag again? She flexes her hands in anticipation.

But no. Not tonight. A bagger has sauntered over and begun the job. THE BASHAS' STORE #7 AND DISTRICT #4 1994 PACK-OFF CHAMPION keeps one eye on the sacker as she notes his slowness, his inattention, his overall ineptitude. Never has she entered a grocery store without hoping to find THE ONE, the sacker who combines grace and speed with intelligent packing, THE ONE to whom she might pass her mantle -- but she knows that she will not find THE ONE on this night, not unless the culinary world suddenly develops a mania for squashed tomatoes and flattened bread.

THE BASHAS' STORE #7 AND DISTRICT #4 1994 PACK-OFF CHAMPION thanks the bagger politely -- never let it be said that she abandoned good manners in the face of poor service -- and pushes her cart away from the stand but still within sight of it. She swiftly rebags her groceries, ending the unholy unions of tomatoes and toilet bowl cleaner, milk and light bulbs, toilet paper and orange juice. Saddened but resigned, she looks up at the bagger -- but he hasn't noticed. Perhaps . . . one day . . .

She exits. Passing through the doors, she leaves behind THE BASHAS' STORE #7 AND DISTRICT #4 1994 PACK-OFF CHAMPION and is just another Chicagoan struggling with her bags on a cold and snowy night.