Honest Ken

 The Jewel has a problem with turnips.  Used to be no matter how many of those rascals I piled on the weight scale the whole lot of them was only 79 cents.  Don't know why, didn't ask.  Those folks were busy and probably would not want to be disturbed by a rather trivial matter.  How many people buy turnips anyway?

Not many.  They are in a little bin far from the madness of the broccolis and the Brussels sprouts, the stars of the vegetable aisle.  The bin is maybe a foot wide and often the turnips have to share it with the parsnips.  Often when I use a human checkout they ask me, "What are those things?"  

Okay, I sorta knew when I was putting down 79 cents for a big bagful I was getting away with something, but I was playing by the rules.  I was paying what I was asked.

Maybe some wisenheimer ratted or maybe Jewel found out for itself, but they fixed it.  Not really.  I don't plump them down on the scale and push the lookup button, type in TU and then hit the Turnip roots button and get a price.  What I get is a notice to get help.  

Doncha hate that?  You were expecting to drop in, fill your cart, zip it past the laser and get out and on with your life in like one smooth movement, not having to bother anybody.

You know some people (particularly us golden agers) are just not sharp enough to handle the automated check out, and sometimes I click my tongue in pity, maybe even sneer sometimes because they are holding up the line.  Dumbasses.

And now, waiting for the wise queen of the automated checkout like a baby for his mama, I know some are passing by thinking what a dumbass.  She takes her time, of course, getting to me, and then she whips out some paper, types in the number she looks up, and bam I am dinged for oh, maybe three bucks.  Fair enough, those are the rules.

So I am out of the store and maybe a block and a half down, getting on with my life and it suddenly occurs to me, what with all the goings on of getting my turnips rung up: did I pay?  I go through my memory and I come up with nada.  Maybe for a few seconds I entertain ways that I could just shine it on, but again nada.  Instead of getting on with my life I am going back to the store.

And it's not just I have to give them some dough.  There is a trip to the experts in that little office thing, a little discussion, and then I have to drag all my stuff back over the laser again, and wait while the checkout cheese does the turnip thing again before I can get back to getting on with my life.

And you know, I expected to get a little gratitude from the Jewel.  Had I not gotten away free groceries, but then went all the way back to make it right?  Couldn't they have said they appreciated my sacrifice, because many other folks, and here we could both pause to look over the maddening crowd with mild disapproval, would not have bothered.  It's people like myself that gives the staff a rosier view of human nature and gets them through the long hours of the day.

Would that have been so hard.  But then I am thinking of Abraham Lincoln.  Dollars to donuts I bet that customer slipped the penny into her purse without a word.  Honest Abe and me, two souls getting on with their lives.