Waaay-back Wednesday: Big bad bag boy

When the phone rings at my desk after 11 p.m., it's never good news.

The only people who know they can find me there at that hour are the newspaper's production department, various law enforcement agencies and my wife. I just hope it's not my wife.

"I need you to drop by the grocery store on your way home and pick up some milk, orange juice, toilet paper and various feminine hygiene products."

"Sorry," I say, "no can do."

I would print her response here, but in strict accordance with the Georgia Newspaper Decency Act of 1937, I'd better just print my side of the conversation.

"Yes, dear. Yes, dear. Yes, that would hurt. A cheese grater, huh?"

Needless to say, I follow orders because I know who the man of our house is, and I don't want her to get mad.

No offense to our local establishments, but I hate going to the grocery store. Maybe it's because I have flashbacks to my days as a Food Transferral and Arrangement Engineer (bag boy) making $3.25 an hour. I often scream out with night terrors, still seeing Mrs. Jones chasing me around C-Mart in Oglethorpe, Ga., with a squashed loaf of Wonder Bread in her hand. The only tip she'd give me was the tip of her walking cane to the back of my head. You know what they say: "Hell hath no fury like a woman whose bread got mashed."

Most of these tragic bread-mashing incidents occurred on Fridays. I also seem to recall Mary Jane in Checkout Lane 2 wearing tight blue jeans every Friday. But I'm sure that bagging groceries behind her and putting Wonder Bread in the same bag as a 10-pound tub of lard was pure coincidence.

Though the parking lot of the store was filled with angry victims of my ruthless scheme to mash the world's bread, it was safer than the inside of the store. Remember that Tyrannosaurus rex from "Jurassic Park?" Compared to my boss, that T-Rex would be considered cute and cuddly.
I'm fairly certain that he didn't like me. I deciphered that from subtle, tiny hints he would drop in our conversations, such as, "Hey, kid, did I remember to tell you today that I don't like you?"

"Yes, sir."

"I must have forgotten to scratch that off my to-do list. Now cut the chatter and get back to work!"

I'm not sure why he didn't like me. Maybe it's because Slim Jims began mysteriously disappearing from the checkout aisles after I was hired. Again, pure coincidence — just like it's pure coincidence that Slim Jims were suddenly overstocked after I quit.

Though I worked there for just a few months, I developed the skills that serve as the foundation for my career today — such as knowing where the boss is at all times and how to respond when caught sleeping on the job.

"Chris, are you snoring?" my boss asks a couple of times a day.

"Uh, no. I'm just thinking really hard. My brain always makes that sound when I think."

"Well, maybe you shouldn't think so hard. You're starting to drool on your desk."

Granted, I may not be much more of an asset to the newspaper than I was to C-Mart. But since we don't sell Slim Jims at the Ledger-Enquirer, I'm not too much of a liability, either.