The Blogs: Al Targiz et Hakupa’it–Don’t Poke the Cashier!

Adventures in Aliyah

Kilometerstone 16b: The Unplanned Grocery Delivery—

Wikimedia Commons-Author illustration

THE BACKGROUND

I had shopped 2-3 times a week for two years at my supermarket. The staff treated me normally: no one looked at me or acted as if they had ever seen me before.

In contrast, I had a jarring experience on our last visit to the US. At an unfamiliar grocery, stranger after another greeted me with a grin and inquired after my welfare. “Good morning, Sir! (Grin!) “Did you find everything you need?” (Grin!) “Have a nice day, Sir!” (Grin!) What was the matter with these people? I couldn’t wait to get back home to Israel, where people know how to behave.

Pixabay–free online media library

SUPERMARKET DELIVERIES

I shopped with my trusty agala, shopping cart, and was always able to fit everything I bought into it, once in a while adding a bag to carry in my other hand. My only contact with grocery deliveries was to avoid them.

Author photo

For instance, there might be two cashier lanes open. One of them had a line of shoppers extending back across the exit lane into one of the aisles as far back as the instant coffee. Yet the next lane was empty. Why?

Author photo

One day I peered into the empty aisle. Beyond the cash register was a huge blue delivery container. It would take many groceries and a lot of time to fill it. The shopper was elderly (i.e. two years older than I am) and a bit befuddled (like me).

Pixabay–free online media library

When the blue container was finally filled, the shopper handed the cashier a mo’adon (membership discount) card. This had to be swiped, which resulted in shrugging, discussion, and an appeal to a manager. Then the card was swiped again.

After that, there were forms: delivery instructions—name, address, mobile phone, and so on–followed by ishurim, authorizations, from the mayor’s office, the police, the Ministry of Deliveries.

I had seen enough, and rejoined the other checkout line, which now extended past the peanut butter. After that, anytime a line looked open but empty, I stayed away.

Why would I order a delivery and inconvenience my fellow shoppers?

WE MOCK THAT WHICH WE ARE TO BE

One Tuesday morning the supermarket was empty. No one was waiting at the cashier line, and no one came in behind me. As the cashier swiped my items, I parked myself on the other side of the register, busily loading them into my shopping cart. Stuffing it to the brim, I looked back and saw to my alarm that I had run out of room in the cart with close to half my order yet to be swiped.

Pixabay–free online media library

I turned to the cashier and said, “Excuse me, but can I arrange for a delivery?”

And she replied,

“WHY DIDN’T YOU TELL ME THAT IN THE FIRST PLACE? WHY DON’T PEOPLE HAVE ANY CONSIDERATION? DO THEY THINK IT IS SO EASY TO ARRANGE A DELIVERY? IT TAKES TIME AND PREPARATION AND YOU CAN’T JUST ANNOUNCE IN THE MIDDLE OF A CHECKOUT THAT YOU WANT A DELIVERY??!!”

I was stunned and speechless. I tried to apologize, to explain that I didn’t realize I would need a delivery, but it was futile. I could not get the cashier’s attention. She had no interest in explanations. She wanted to go on yelling.

“NO ONE HAS ANY COURTESY! THEY DON’T CARE HOW HARD MY JOB IS AND GO RIGHT AHEAD AND MAKE IMPOSSIBLE DEMANDS AS THOUGH I DON’T COUNT FOR ANYTHING AT ALL!”

Mortified, I looked around for assistance, for sympathy, for anything. No one met my gaze. Co-workers looked studiously uninterested. As though they had seen this act before.

The cashier shoved a notepad at me, sideways. “FILL THIS OUT!” she explained. “NAME, ADDRESS, MOBILE, ID NUMBER, LAST 5 DIGITS OF YOUR GREAT-GRANDMOTHER’S POLISH SOCIAL INSURANCE CARD….”

She turned to a man who had just arrived at end of counter and placed a blue delivery container on it. “TELL HIM THE NUMBER OF THE DELIVERY CONTAINER!” she suggested. “TELL HIM!!!”

Pixabay–free online media library

The man was trying very hard not to smile. Smiling at that point would have been a very bad idea.

“206,” he said to me, mildly.

“WRITE IT DOWN!” she yelled at me, “THERE, ON THE PAPER, UNDER YOUR ID NUMBER. WRITE IT NOW!”

Shaken, I wrote it, and tried handing it to her. She grabbed the pad, ripped off the top sheet and flung it at the man at the delivery box.

I seemed to be done, in more ways than one. I was embarrassed and enraged, and swore silently never to set foot in this place again. I scolded myself for not learning how to yell in public. How was I ever going to fit in around here?

As I left, I turned to the customer service desk, thinking vaguely of complaining. No one was there.

So I left. The man at the front who tells you where to park your shopping cart sometimes nods when I come or go. He looked away.

The delivery came to our apartment a couple of hours later. The delivery man was very pleasant.

Once I calmed down and unburdened myself to my wife, who was properly sympathetic, I managed to forget my vow and began returning to the same supermarket. I just found lanes with a different cashier.

THE SURPRISE HAPPY-ENDING FOLLOW-UP!

Several weeks later I was at the supermarket shopping for paper disposable cups. I found them and was studying the different brands when I heard a voice.

Because this is Jerusalem, I looked up at the heavens. But saw only the ceiling.

Author photo

I went back to perusing the cups, when I heard the voice again. “There’s a sale,” said the voice.

I looked to my right and sure enough there she was, the same cashier described above. She looked at me from the exit aisle, pointed forward, and said, “They’re on sale. At the entrance.”

I followed her to the front of the store, where she showed me a display of disposable paper cups. “Two sleeves for 10 shekels,” she said. “Today only.” With that, she turned and went back to her post. Like the Lone Ranger, the Masked Man of my youth, her work here was done.