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Under the Sun
Cynthia Oi
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Tough day at the office no match for a weird post from the past
THE strangest place I've ever worked was at a small grocery store in Manoa.
I was a cashier, the job unexceptional. What made it weird was boredom.
The store had few customers, a thin troupe of regular patrons whose spare buying habits I came to know intimately.
Hat Lady arrived midmorning, clutching one of those plastic coin purses that, when squeezed, gapes open like a mouth. She was stout, but moved briskly from soda chest to candy display, a Coke and sweet o' the day scooped up and plunked down on the counter in front of me.
It got so predictable that one time, just for the heck of it, I rang up her charges before she reached the check out.
Big mistake.
She was furious, red face eclipsing the heavy rouge on her cheeks. She bawled me out because she'd not seen me ka-ching in the prices on the register. I voided the first receipt and dutifully toted her items in her presence. Unappeased, she glared at me, then nudged the soda toward me. After a few seconds, I realized I'd forgotten that she always, always, always wanted the cap popped off for her.
She peeled half the wrapping from the candy bar, as she invariably did, leaving the trash with me, also a habit, and assumed her usual position just to the left of the door to consume her snack.
She never spoke to me again, which was no big deal because she'd never said a word to me, or to any of my three co-workers, before.
THE INCIDENT was the most excitement the store had seen since I'd dropped a watermelon while trying to bag it, spraying the would-be buyer with pink pulp.
Though it may sound like it, business wasn't slow because of me. A new supermarket had opened nearby, it's cheery, antiseptic, air-conditioned novelty enticing shoppers away.
Thus, the incredible boredom.
The manager didn't want me reading at the register so I'd have to hide my Lit 101 books behind the brown bags and sneak them out when he retired to his cubbyhole office.
He didn't spend a lot of time there; not much paperwork to do when inventory remains stagnant. He'd hatch make-work projects, ordering the bag boy to sweep the cracked linoleum floors two or three times a shift, sending me to dust cans of soup and beets.
THE BUTCHER was immune to extra work. She had been up for the manager's job, but was passed over because she was female; gender discrimination was still tolerated then. A brusque woman, she thoroughly intimidated him.
He'd wait until she left for the day to start the weirdness, which was singing Frank Sinatra tunes over the store's PA system while the bag boy backed him up on guitar.
"Fly me to the mooon, and let me plaaay among the starzz" bounced through the empty aisles in scratchy pre-karaoke performances. The show would go on until customers walked in and resume when they left.
This was amusing at first, but after the 99th rendition of "Summer Wind," the tedium was overwhelming and the atmosphere grew too bizarre.
When the manager wouldn't let us go out to buy lunch, insisting that we eat the unsold meats and veggies on the verge of decomposition that he cooked up on a hot plate, it was time to say so long.
THERE ARE many times when my current job becomes tiresome, but I revive myself by acknowledging that I'm seldom bored with my work. And as Labor Day approaches, I tip my hat to the countless people whose work makes my life easier and whose smiles and kindnesses, under less than ideal circumstances, soften a hard day.
Thanks to Sue, Tuina and Angelito, the keepers of the parking lot gate. Thanks to Scott at Times, Min at the corner store, Lucy at the farmers' market and Jeff at the post office.
Cynthia Oi has been on the staff of the Star-Bulletin since 1976. She can be reached at
coi@starbulletin.com.