I'm not giving up. But Tuesdays have an automatic strike against me.
"I don't think he's coming, Am," says Chris from behind his register to my left. The clock on the wall above the deserted customer service station reads nine-fifty-nine as I stand staring at the door.
At least this string of failures is not my fault. They're on Mr. Sweatpants, who always checks out at my register but refuses to talk to me no matter what I try. I should've given up on him weeks ago, but then I might as well tattoo looser on my forehead. He owes me a win, even if he doesn't know it. I need a win.
"It's time to lock the doo-" Chris stops mid-sentence.
Woosh. The automatic sliding glass doors part, blasting me with more heat, and in comes the guy I've been waiting for, wearing the only clothes I've ever seen him in-black sneakers, sweats, a long sleeve black hoodie, with its hood over an equally black baseball cap. The gust of muggy July Chicago air follows him in and lingers. The gods of broken air conditioners ignore my pleas. A trickle of sweat runs down my neck, chest, and right into my already sticky bra.
Each week he comes in minutes before we lock the doors. He strolls with his small cart around the bins with bulk loose grains where he weighs quinoa or buckwheat with the precision of a chemist. He takes his sweet time to consult his phone, ignoring the announcement that the store is closing, gathers the items from the rest of the vacant store, and makes a bee-line to my register. Where he does not talk to me.
Two things are at stake today. Yes, if I get him to talk, I'll win my first Tuesday cashiers vs. customers game. Not cleaning the bathrooms at the end of today's shift would be a Godsend, but there's more. I need a good luck sign if I'm ever going to send out the post-graduate school applications I've been filling out this week instead of working on my thesis. If Mr. Sweatpants ignores me, which he will, so be it. I'll plug up my nose, get a bigger scoop and start shoveling shit at a real job instead of spending the next five years of my life in academia.
There's usually an element of luck in our clandestine game because some people love to hear themselves talk, describing how their day has been, or complaining about the office workload or little Charlie's ear infection while I have to pretend to care. Others ignore my 'How's your evening going' and stay silent, talk on their phones, or treat me like a kiosk. But not Mr. Sweatpants. He comes with a preset yes, no, and I don't know answers, which, according to the rules, do not count in the tally. Not today. Not if I play my cards right.
Game. Set. Match.
I drag myself away from the meek whirl of the fan moving hot air from one side of the register to the other and embark on our weekly song and dance. Me-rolling my lips between my teeth to hold in any snarky comments because his cart continues to look like a sample of the produce section: sweet potatoes, broccoli, green beans, lemons. No alcohol. And never my daily staples of caffeine or candy. Him-standing on the other side, emitting waves of musky funk and never meeting my eye. I continue to scan the groceries: apples, salmon, a bag of coffee.
Coffee? That's different.
This is my chance.
"Coffee? Is this your favorite kind?"
"No."
Not enough.
"Then why this coffee?" I glance up and catch his eyes scrutinize my face. The golden circle around his pupils stands out in sharp contrast with the blue of his irises. Not my type but I'm not here to date him. My sole focus is to get him to keep talking. I don't look away, and neither does he.
"It's for a new recipe-coffee-rubbed salmon. I don't drink coffee."
For the first time in months since I've become his cashier of choice, he utters two complete sentences. I close my mouth before it hits the top of the register. Two sentences that change my life. I only needed one to break the tie with Chris today, so I'm finally in the lead. I'll send Chris to clean the bathrooms for a change.
But can I get more?
"Oh, a coffee rub? Sounds intriguing." I'm not intrigued, nor do I care what he says next.
"I like to cook." Mr. Sweatpants-or should I rename him into Mr. Luck-bites. "It's how I challenge myself to try new things but stay in charge of the ingredients and preparation. It's a perfect balance of novelty and control." He stops his monotonous spiel, and we're back to the staring match.
It's my turn to be silent. I got my win and my sign. Thanks to him the decision is out of my hands. The corners of my mouth curl up. I'm actually doing it. I'm moving to France. If I get accepted.
"Ahem." Chris slams his register shut.
The loud noise gets me to break our eye contact. I stretch my lips into a smile.
"Cool." I scan and bag cucumbers and tomatoes into his reusable canvas tote with two figures in white uniforms flying and kicking at each other printed in black ink. 'Chang's Taekwondo Academy' reads the line beneath.
My guy pays, turns, walks out of the store, and Chris locks up behind him. I've come to rely on Chris as on an older brother I've never had. His stature is impressive, and the occasional drunk or a persistent sober customer asking for my number does not need to know that Chris's sport of choice is yoga. He can massage the hell out of the knots in your back, but he's never been in a fight in his thirty-five years of life.
Chris mocks shooting himself in the head. "Dude, that was painful to watch. Is this the first time he's ever actually talked to you?"
"Finally, right?" I add five tally marks to the sticky note on my register that says Tuesday. I've counted the cash and balanced it against the register's total before Mr. Sweatpants showed up, and he always pays with a credit card, one that belongs to Benjamin Y. Leonards. The register has a hundred in small bills and change for Mary, who'll open in the morning.
"The first month, I hoped you could crack him, but by now, I thought it was hopeless. Why talk to you today?"
"Not a clue. Pity, probably. Look at me." I point at my sweat stains. "I'm a billboard for imminent heat stroke." Chris examines what must be a glistening face, and I tug down the T-shirt that bunched up over my boobs. "Nah, you look as adorable as ever; I'm not buying it."
"Well, who cares? I got way more sentences out of him than I needed. And you know what that means?" I wave the sticky note in front of his face.
"Don't gloat."
"Someone's not happy about losing." I give Chris's shoulder a light shove. "I'll let you use my good rubber gloves for that toilet scrubbing, if you ask nicely. Prepare to face defeat every Tuesday." I pump my fist in the air and shout, "Amélie for the win."
Love in Chicago Universe/Series
Love Novice (Book 1-completed) Am and Ben
Love Strings (Book 2-completed) Angie and Mike
Love Graduate (Book 3-completed) Ben and Am
Love Words (Book 4-ongoing) Linda and Artem
Love Expectations (Book 5-ongoing) Phillip and Nata
They take place in the same universe and can be read as standalones.
Add them to your reading list.
Love,
GR