On the distinguished and ever-growing list of jobs I do not want is being a cashier at a pharmacy or supermarket. Maybe this is the private and cloistered part of me coming out, or the part that is uncomfortable with knowing what goes on in other people’s private lives. I’m okay if you want to buy three massive jugs of vodka and nothing else, it doesn’t bother me that you’re alone, or that you’re older and probably not hosting a party for all your friends after work. I think it’s great that you’re having enough sex that you need to buy condoms at Costco along with a jug of chocolate sauce, an equally large tub of lube, and a grin you can’t even find on the Price is Right. I’m a single guy, I buy single guy stuff, I know what you’re thinking.
But I don’t want to be the guy behind the counter who has to deal with you, where you know what’s going on, and I know what’s going on, but neither of us make like anything’s going on. When I roll up to the counter looking like death warmed over carrying four cans of soup, a bag of Cold-Eeze Zinc Lozenges, and Nyquil … you and I both know I’m diseased and no one in their right mind would either come close to me or touch anything I’ve touched, much less sell me something and make like ain’t nothing going on but the nice weather we’re having. (you were right though, the weather was spectacular yesterday)
But you do.
And I don’t think I could, so that job’s not for me. I just don’t have the chops.