PAYING THE PRICE
A woman has blocked me in the checkout tunnel of razor blades, magazines and Scotch tape. She continually nudges her cart forward, bulldozing me toward the conveyor belt. I experience a moment of panic, similar to the feeling that comes as the roller coaster reaches its peak and heads down, and then the cashier is dragging my items across the scanner. She doesn't say a word. There is not the usual store-speak of "How are you?" or a more personal "Hello, Professor Jerk" or even "Now, it's my turn" followed by maniacal laughter. I try simultaneously to hide my face and read her name tag to confirm her identity. I know it is she because I remember her papers, each one short, confused and off-topic. She put little effort into my class, and although I urged her to come see me, she never did. I silently curse the Davis fishbowl. It's impossible to go five minutes without encountering someone you know. This can be nice in a Mayberry kind of way, but sometimes you want to stumble through the world anonymously, not worrying about what you're wearing or if you're talking out loud to yourself again. She doesn't look at me. She doesn't acknowledge me. Maybe she doesn't recognize me. Maybe she is more embarrassed than I am. I wonder why I am embarrassed at all. I did nothing wrong. I remind myself that I have every right to be there. I stand straighter. Then it happens. She scans a pack of batteries, and they ring up as $37.60. I suspect this is her moment of revenge. She is waiting to see if I'm too stupid to notice, or perhaps she thinks I will quietly pay because I feel guilty for ruining her life. Or maybe she is waiting for me to complain, and when I do, she will simply shrug as if to say, "What do you expect from someone who fails first-year composition?" As I stand paralyzed, she notices the charge herself and gestures to the manager. That's when I recognize the subtlety of her plan. She is going to force me to wait as they fumble around, and then she will say the machine can't read my credit card and then my check will be no good, and then I will have to return items because I don't have any cash, and she'll stand and smirk as I leave the store empty-handed, frustrated and humiliated. The manager strikes a few keys, hands over my receipt and says "thank you" while my ex-student bags my purchases and hands them to me. As I walk to the car, I wonder if she never looks at any of the customers or if she simply never learned who was teaching all those things that she never learned. -- Joseph Mills, Ph.D. '98 |
By the time I realize the cashier is a student I've failed, it's too late to back away.