Bagger of the Year (Cont.)

5:25pm: An enormous woman with a frizzy perm and pink jogging suit approaches her blue basket filled with four packages of family pack split chicken breasts, each soaking in a pool of zesty garlic marinade. I smile weakly as I hand her the bags, imagining her eating all 24 pieces of chicken by herself that night while watching Murder, She Wrote in the shag-carpeted living room of her shabby, one-bedroom condominium. As she walks past the judges, one of the bags I have just handed her tears open. Chicken tumbles onto the floor, splattering the left leg of her jogging suit with oily marinade. She is our last customer of the day. The competition is over.

“I can’t believe you got white onions wrong,” I say to Mary as I storm back toward the lunchroom. “No one screws up white onions. This is going to totally fuck up our score.”

“Um, dude, you try keying in produce codes with a broken 9 key sometime,” she replies. “And I’m not the one who jammed 30 pounds of chicken into one plastic bag. What do you think that did for our score?”

I approach the post-competition buffet and angrily stab a cube of honeydew melon with a toothpick. “You know what, Mary? If I hadn’t had to do everything all afternoon, maybe I could have focused on the chicken breasts.”

Mary dumps the contents of her Liz Claiborne purse onto the table in front of her, change and gum wrappers and makeup spilling everywhere. “Where the hell are my cigarettes?” she says under her breath, trying to ignore me. But I wasn’t finished yet.

“You just stood there like some crazy cashier zombie robot all day, and I had to make sure someone said hello to the customers. You acted like you didn’t even want to be there.”

“That is total crap, Dave,” she says angrily, sliding the mess on the table back into her purse. “I’ve spent every night for the last two months standing at a cash register listening to you boss me around because you think being Bagger of the Fucking Year will get you on the Phil Donahue show. I haven’t seen my boyfriend, I haven’t hung out with any of my friends, I haven’t done any of my homework. And now that you messed things up, you’re blaming it all on me. I knew I never should have agreed to this. What a waste of my time.” She stands up. “I’m going to get some cigarettes.”

“You never do homework,” I yell to her as she storms out of the lunchroom. “Don’t try to blame that on me.”

I want to follow Mary. She’s one of my only friends and I know how alone I’ll be if I lose her. But I’m afraid if I go after her I’ll just make things worse, and what she said hurts. I sit by myself in the lunchroom for a while, but being surrounded by other teams laughing and joking is too much to bear. I grab six La Choy Heat-n- Serve Spicy Mandarin eggrolls from the buffet, roll them into a napkin, and shove the whole thing into the pocket of my smock before slinking out of the lunchroom, away from the revelry and fun.

I know exactly where Mary will be, and when I get to the loading dock in the back of store, where trucks back in to unload merchandise, I see her sitting on a milk crate next to a pallet of Ken-L-Ration. She looks at me, shakes her head dismissively, and says something under her breath before turning her attention back to her cigarette. We sit in silence for a while, just 5 feet apart, each caught up in our own misery.

“I was going to give you the $500 if we won, you know,” I say to her.

“That’s crap,” she replies. “You were going to use it to pay off your Filene’s bill.” She takes another drag of her cigarette. “I love you, Davey,” she says, her voice softer now. “You make me laugh and you’re one of the sweetest, funniest guys I know.” She exhales smoke. “But I’ve got to tell you, this contest has turned you into a major pain in the ass.”

I’m trying to think of an appropriate response when Mark Tempesta comes strolling toward us. “What the hell are you two doing out here?” he asks. I want to ask him the same question – he hadn’t told us that he’d be coming to the competition.

“We’re just um, you know, chilling out,” I stammer. “Yeah, just getting a little air,” Mary adds with a weak smile. Neither of is willing to tell Mark that his dream team has collapsed under the weight of accusations, acrimony, and technical difficulties. “You guys looked great out there today,” he says, perhaps hearing the disappointment in my voice. “You should be proud. You’ve got a bright future ahead of you.”

“Thanks,” I say weakly, wishing Mark would just leave. This competition was supposed to be my ticket to waterfront real estate in Santa Monica and a development deal at Twentieth Century Fox. The last thing I need is to hear my store manager lecture me about how wonderful the next 40 years of my life can be if only I will commit to spending it at a supermarket. I reach into my pocket for an eggroll. Mary lights another cigarette.

“Well you two better get your asses upstairs,” Mark says with a laugh. “You need to pose for your photo.” I look at him, then at Mary. “Yes, you idiots. You won! Why are you sitting out here sulking? Get back inside. Everyone is waiting for you.”

We had won? What was he talking about? What about the spilled chicken breast and the ruined pink jogging suit. The sticky nine key and the falling cardboard star? Brad the juggler? Hadn’t the judges been paying any attention out there at all?

But as we walk back into the break room with Mark, people rise from their seats and begin applauding. Leanne totters over, uncomfortable in her heels, gives Mary a giant bouquet of green and blue carnations, and hands me an enormous Cashier/Bagger of the Year plaque that will soon be engraved with our names. It’s all happening fast.

“There were a lot of great teams out there this year,” Leanne is saying. “Lots and lots of great team,” she repeats, for emphasis I guess. “But there can only be one Cashier and Bagger of the Year.”

Some guy is snapping photos. The fluorescent lights of the lunchroom are bearing down on us. People are clapping and cheering, and as I stand there soaking up their adoration and love, it feels like most natural thing in the world.

Mary and I stand next to each other in front of the crowd as flashbulbs pop in our faces, smiling widely, bathing in the warm glow of celebrity. I look over at her and wonder if she finally understands: This is my destiny, the role I was born to play. But when our eyes meet, she ever so slightly rolls them toward the back of her head.

“I am so happy,” she says to me out of the side of her mouth, “that this fucking day is over.” I acknowledge this with a nod, but I just know in my heart that for me, the end of this day is the beginning of something much, much bigger.

Dave Demerjian is a writer based in Boston. His work has appeared in Wired News, Nerve, The Boston Globe, and Out Traveler. He is currently at work on a collection of short stories.
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