Express Lanes

         When major setbacks occur in our daily lives to disrupt the serenity and status-quo we promptly dub them calamaties, disasters, and even, in extenuating circumstances…catastrophies.

         When penny-ante matters of a frivolous nature rear their ugly heads to cause the same effect we label them “peeves.” Basically, peeves come in two varieties. There are your plain ole ordinary peeves, but lookin’ further down the road we come face to face with somethin’ awful, “pet peeves.” The latter are the former magnified umpteen times over.

         The subject matter to be discussed here is of paramount importance, so to those vast multitudes who might be interested, please be informed of my all-time champion “pet peeve.”

         It revolves around those EXPRESS LANE checkout counters in supermarkets. You know…the familiar sign hanging from a ceiling with it’s glaring message: EXPRESS LANE , 10 ITEMS OR LESS.

         Now neighbor, be forewarned! There is a fly-in-the-buttermilk. That sign is there for adornment purposes only and, in a manner of speaking, proclaims and spews forth a vile and false doctrine.

         The last time I’ve seen an EXPRESS LANE open and ready to do business was uh,uh…let me think for a moment. Was it 77 or 78? Oh yeah, it all comes back now. I’m reasonably certain it was 8 years ago in the winter of 1977.

         Surely everyone knows why EXPRESS LANES were designed and built into supermarkets . Their sole reason for existence is to separate, as fast as is humanly possible, poor people from their last few dollars. “Git ‘em outta’ the door and off the premises with all due haste!” That is the ultimate function of EXPRESS LANES.

         However, sad though it is to contemplate, soon after EXPRESS LANES were introduced to American shoppers and became a part of our vocabulary, someone “throwed” a monkey-wrench into the cogs and gummed up the entire works; the whole plan went haywire.

         When approaching an EXPRESS LANE I usually have only a paltry few grocery items in hand. A bag of pintos, a two-pound slab of fatback, maybe two tins of potted meat…that’s about it. I’d be within the rules to get 10 grocery staples processed thru, but hell fella,’ let’s be realistic and face some cold hard facts. If ever I amass enough cash to purchase 10 nutritious foodstuffs during a single shopping spree…well, that very day I’ll begin hob-nobbing with the Mellons and Rockefellers.

         Always and without exception as I near an EXPRESS LANE one of two things are going to happen. Firstly, a triangle shaped block resembling an elongated pyramid will be on the countertop , it’s stark message there for all to see…EXPRESS LANE CLOSED!!

         The second of these twin evils is the really irksome one. Join me in the following chapter, and let’s be miserable together as we depart on an excruciating journey that’s guaranteed to lead straight into the growling bowels of agony. That gloomy and oh so predictable world of supermarket EXPRESS LANES…

2

         The introductory chapter into the intriguing world of EXPRESS LANES ended on a dismal note; the infernal thing was closed. An equally somber note will be sounded now. As we press relentlessly onward, shoppers should be made aware…there is no good news here, no cause for jubilance will be found.

         Hopefully however, that opening salvo can serve one useful purpose. It can alert poor folks , enabling them to be better prepared for what lies ahead when attempting to negotiate that horrendous obstacle course commonly referred to as EXPRESS LANES.

         The previous chapter mentioned “twin evils.” Be prepared. That second monstrosity is about to explode in a kaleidoscope of living color!

         Let’s set the scene. I’m nearing the areaof a supermarket where speed is supposed to be utilized, and much to my delight find only 3 other poverty-stricken and downtrodden souls in line ahead of me.

         No cause for alarm; the delay will be brief. Because these folks couldn’t have large amounts of cash they might return to circulation in our nation’s monetary system. They’re  more poor than I am.

         The first two customers are herded through in mere seconds, quick like a flash. That little gray-haired grandmother to my immediate front is next, “ boys, I’m uh gittin’ close!”

         But whoa…hold on. Just as she is about to place her loaf of bread on the counter…BINGO! Out comes that confounded block resembling an elongated pyramid…EXPRESS LANE CLOSED!        

         The petite and pretty young store clerk steals a hurried glance at the Timex on her delicate wrist, then utters the dreaded words: “I’m sorry, it’s my break-time.”

         And away she scurries to the storage room, there to engage in rumor and gossipwith personnel from the produce-department ( they oughta’ been sprayin’ a fine mist over the lettuce ) and a butcher ( he oughta’been grindin’ hamburger ).

         Despair was the prevailing mood as Grandma and I moved over to join an extended line of grocery shoppers in the regular checkout lanes. “Oh my!” she exclaimed. “Just look how long those lines are!”

         Looking straight into her distraught and wrinkled features, I said to this kindly old lady who might have passed thru a million checkout counters: “Maam, I don’t wish to sound pessimistic, but there’s an excellent chance your bread will turn stale and moldy before we get outta’ here. I suggest you exchange it fer a poke of flour. That’s the only way your husband can be assured of having fresh bread for supper.”

         Having second thoughts after seeing the length of the line, I added: “On the other hand Maam, a poke of flour will become buggy with creepy crawlies before we get thru this one. Grab yerself a box of saltines.”

         “I think you’re right,” she remarked disgustedly. She headed for the cracker shelf and I’ve neither seen nor heard from her since.

         Three hours later I was processed through and past the cash register. On leaving the store I glanced over to the EXPRESS LANE. That consarned store-clerk hadn’t as yet returned to her duty station!

         Airing those “peeves” in public will get you called lotsa’ names. Friend, you will be branded: a “chronic griper.” A “bellyacher”.  A “person who ain’t never satisfied with anything.” But as in the old saying, “sticks and stones may break my bones.

         All blame must be placed squarely on the shoulders of that EXPRESS LANE clerk for deserting her post and scampering off to the storage-room. She’s still back there…

The End

M. L. Wilkinson

June, 1981