Oh, I hate that whole, but its a job—and its not all bad. I’ve lost twenty-eight pounds loading sodas for all of these Dundawkians [1] and blacks. This store is a stamp [2] store. If we have Turkey Hill half gallons of tea on sale for 4 for $5 here comes 30 jugs down the belt. I don’t know where these people store it!

The biggest seller is Coke and Pepsi six-packs, 20 ounce bottles for $6 a piece. Most of these people can’t bag, they’re young or black. So I get extra customers, if I’m not the only bitch on the register, because people want their lunch meat and bread intact. This one black man looks at me bagging his order and says, “Bitch, look at you go. You must be strong as shit—I’d hate ta fight you!”

The little black girl Elsie, that works next to me, she’s not too sharp but super sweet and doesn’t even own a cuss word. The old fat white people on welfare, just shit all over her, call her names, then call Corporate on her—they’re just like the niggs. I tell her, “Just look down, baby, keep quiet,” and they move off—she’s an easy mark.

Then there is Bobby, the retard, who gets dropped off by mobility. He’s, well, obvious and doesn’t have a filter. I don’t know how all these broke-ass people get the money to have their tits and dicks cut off, but we get new trannies every day and he notices out loud, and I’m like, “Bobby, keep it to yourself—these people sit by the Right Hand of God and you can’t say shit.”

I’m not about to give these people [the company] my money back while I’m working for minimum wage. So I pack my lunch. But Bobby is always hungry and never has a lunch and whatever money he makes, he doesn’t have it, so he costs me three dollars a day.

Then there are the CSMs [3] fat and fatter. Fat just stands at the register and does nothing, watches me work and complains about gaining weight while he’s stuffing his face. This kid must spend all of his money at Checkers and can eat a $20 order in five minutes. This one black bitch looks at him while I’m bagging her groceries and says, “Can yo fat ass please loog at sometin’ udda den me while you feedin’!”

Then there is Fatter—The Penguin—walks like a fucking penguin with her feet out. This bitch is so fat she dropped a lottery ticket that she had just spend $5 on and didn’t pick it up—it wasn’t worth it, hadn’t even scratched it off! She will stand there while I’m alone with a line wrapping around the front end and not lift a finger.

It’s the hoverround capital of the world. Every one of these fat fucks has a scooter chair. We have a black family that comes in there, Granny—in a chair, Mamma—in a chair, Daughter—in a chair, fucking junior, 12 years old and so fat he’s crippled, in a chair; they come rolling in like a freight train! How the fuck do they get there—get towed by a truck?! Jeese Louise!

This one fat fuck—five feet high, four feet wide—comes in in his scooter chair. Greasy white piece of shit, flip-flops, pajamas—every second white person in Dundalk shops in pajamas, as bad as fat black bitches in spandex—followed by his stick-figure wife, as meek as can be. I place his two Turkey Hill ice teas, half gallons, in a bag and tie it up nice and place it on his chair and he starts whining about he needs two bags, that he’s disabled and he can’t lift a gallon and I go off. I’m sorry, Poppy, you tell me to keep my mouth shut, but sometimes—so I go offs!

“You can get your fat ass in that chair—down tell me that’s where you sleep and shower. And I know damn sure you weigh more than a gallon! Look at your poor wife—skinny as a rail. You’re probably running her ragged and don’t let her eat, you fat fuck!”

But they’re not all bad. I have my black men that work at the sewage treatment plant that come in for their fried chicken, ten of them, every day for lunch. I give them each two paper towels

because the lazy bitches back in deli don’t even give them a napkin. You need two napkins to eat fried chick. So they call me Momz, and say, “Oh, Momz always hooks me up.” never thought you could get so much respect with paper towels. One morning. One of them comes in and asks, “Momz, where the candy bars at?”

“What the hell you want a candy bar for?”

“I’m hungry.”

“Well if you’re hungry, go back to the bakery and get a doughnut, they’re cheaper and better—get two!”

“Okay Momz, thanks!” so he got his doughnuts and, well, I suppose one day he’ll be in a scooter chair too.

Then, we also have good white men that shop there, the retired military men and steel workers. Arthur, one of the nicest ones, looks around at these young fat people in pajamas, the blacks in their spandex and scooter chairs and says, “I bombed a country for this?”

Yesterday, he brought each one of us girls on the front end who run the registers a dozen roses.

Well, its a job, with its ups and downs. What can a broke ass bitch do? But, if anyone calls me a ϲunt, I’m walking out. You gotta draw a line somewhere [grabs beard]—Oh, now I know why you’re never around for Christmas and you’re so skinny, crawling down chimneys, aye.”

-Megan

…

Notes

-1. Lower class Caucasians native to Southeastern Baltimore County areas of Dundalk, Grey Haven, Northpoint, Edgemere, Berkshire, Colgate and Eastpoint.

-2. Foodstamps, since 1993 known as Independence Card Customers

-3. Customer Service Managers