We all wait in checkout lines; most of us quietly move forward until it is time to pay; maybe a few remarks to the cashier or the box boy or even to those immediately near; for the most part people keep to themselves. Not Kelton. If the line is long and slow, Kelton doesn’t hesitate to begin the inquisition. “Where did you graduate? What sports were you in? Do you know ‘so-and-so’? Did you know that my dad looks like Nathan Blueberg from Nooksack? Yaah, I collect key chains. I have 6,481. Do you collect anything? We have the worst football team. Did you know” . . .
I used to try to discourage him from talking or questioning strangers. Not any more. It is futile. Now, I go with the flow; try to enjoy the ride. It’s a challenge that requires a special set of skills that I have developed over the years, but mostly it’s falling into a hypnotic state and having a sort of “out-of-body” experience while remembering the details of using a debit card.
When there are multiple checkout lines, ours is often the most colorful. Once in a while, I can’t help sensing there is some “checkout-line envy” in the neighboring lines. I’ve come to appreciate “good” checkout banter, even if it is mostly by one enthusiastic young man. There is the benefit of being in line again with the same purchasers: “Don’t you collect key chains?”
“Yes, how did you know? Do I know you?”
“You told me last time we were here. We were in the same line.”
“Oh. I collect bobble heads, too.”
“Really?”
Then it begins again.
I’ll just tell one story, mostly in its entirety. We were in a crowded Costco. In line of course. There were many lines and they were all long. Why I picked the line I did; I don’t know. I often pick the slowest even when it appears the shortest; it’s an uncanny knack I have. The usual was occurring: “I collect key chains? What school did you graduate from? Do you know” . . . Before we got to the front of the line, just two or three ahead, I saw that the cashier had only one arm. Instead of a full arm on his right, from the elbow down was a black, leather arm with a pinching hook on the end. It was unusual to say the least. I knew what was going to happen, but there was no turning back. We were next.
“What happened to your arm?” were the next words I heard stinging my ears as I tried to use the debit machine faster than I ever had.
“It got blown off from some fireworks. They went off before I knew it.” Everyone was silent in line as the boy and man spoke to each other.
“That’s too bad, but your black arm looks really cool!”
The cashier smiled and his tone was different, softer, and his expression sincere and maybe with some relief. He said, “Thank you.”
“Bye,” Kelton said.
“Bye,” he said.
We hurriedly left. I could only think to say as we approached our car, “you should always be careful with fireworks, Kelt.”
“Of course, dad, I know that.”
