The Checkout Boy

The Checkout Boy by Scott Mason

The sky's darkest clouds took turns in hiding the sun, casting moving shadows over the streets below. Every now and then, as if it were playing hide and seek, the sun would be caught between clouds, bringing brief shines to the checkout boy's face. His familiar walk to work was once again hindered by texters; a reluctant game of dodgems forced upon him by the ignorance of society. It made him wonder as to why he was the one getting the dirty looks when they bumped into him. Some didn't say anything; they just turned him to stone with their oh-so threatening eyes. Some shouted at him like it was his fault: "Fuckinell mate, watch where yer goin'". Others waited until they were fifty yards behind him to say that, often adding "wanker!" to the end. With an amused smile spanning his face, he became a hypocrite and took out his MP3 player. He cupped his hand around it to shield it from the rain, clicked next and slipped it back into his cold pockets. It was a thick coat he had on his back but the insulation failed to keep him warm. His hands were almost purple and they shook like they had been dipped in sub zero water. How anybody could text in such weather was a mystery to him. The boy should have been in a rush; it was nearing ten o'clock; but he slowed to a stroll nonetheless and tried not to think about the few hours ahead.

It was a depressingly familiar thought that he would be sat behind the till at Iceland for the next eight hours. But if nothing else, the shift gave him time to think. He often spent it staring blankly into the world outside, thinking about things that needed thought and observing and characterising every customer that entered the store. He felt that you could know a lot about someone just by inspecting their person and their shopping, and he got better at this characterisation as time went on. As always - practice makes perfect, but some customers made the game too easy. The louder more arrogant customers he liked to scrutinise further and to create stories for them, which after they had left, he transcribed into his notepad. His daydreaming was probably ignorant in itself, but he did not care. He liked the time to watch cars circle the roundabout outside and wonder where they were all going. He liked to watch the birds circle an invisible roundabout in the sky and wonder where they were flying.

Strolling in late, the checkout boy let out a deep sigh and as rude as it was, he did not say "good morning" or "alright, how's it going?" to any of his colleagues. There is too much fake interest in the world today. Intruding curiosity spoils life; nobody really gives a shit how you are doing unless they know you. People don't need to be polite all the time. Life doesn't necessitate intrusion. Nobody felt more so this way than the checkout boy, which was why being a checkout boy was the worst job for him. Mindless conversation battered his ears through every shift and time became slower with every dumb comment.

He routinely collected his till money and sat down at number two. And just like every day, he began absorbing and expanding his own fabricated world. He watched the overcast world outside while he listened to the depressing world inside. The two fitted together perfectly, the outside being the topic of conversation inside. Old women talked about the weather and young men talked about the fights they had last night, in the pub across the road. Fat men shuffled along with trolleys full of shopping and dirty men hurried to the till with arms full of cider. One of the fat men intruded upon his vision.
"Good afternoon" said the checkout boy. It was required only of the job he held that he greet people with such politeness.
"Afternoon," the new face said, obviously not interested in conversation. This suited the checkout boy. He constructed a story for the man as he robotically scanned his items through.




He placed him in a shabby home; well suited to his dress sense and body shape. He gave him a fat cat for company, a television for wasting time and not much else. There were no books, for this man did not read, no instruments, for this man did not play, and no trainers, for this man definitely did not exercise. Scant furniture sat on a grubby carpet, bringing much character but little culture to the small room. A dirty armchair sat right in front of the TV with a giant groove in the seat. It was growing deeper as its creator began another long night sat firmly in it, with a TV dinner sat on him.

With perfect timing, the fat man brought him back to reality with an awkward cough. Instantly, the boy sped up his scanning to get rid of him quicker, for this was just another small town guy who would go home and wash his car, sit in front of the TV all night and then go to bed. Your car's going to be dirty again next week mate, he thought.
"That's £33.50 please," said the boy as he waited for the man to count his cash, and "fuck you" as he handed back the change.
"Excuse me?"
"Thank you."

≠

The checkout boy loved his life but hated his job. In this degrading but temporary occupation, he sat on the till for eight hours a day looking out on a world that oozed unhappiness, a world that was filled with falseness. Not everybody was unhappy of course, but he got the feeling that a lot of people covered it up. He continued to sit back and choose those people.

More conversation about the weather awaited as the queue grew longer. Arguing old couples and mothers pushing prams joined miserable staff members and desperate looking dolites. It looked promising for the checkout boy.
"Morning love" said a woman with the master of all blue rinses.
"Hi".
"Oo it's windy today isn't it" she said.
"Yep".
"Oh it's terrible. And it's only forecast to get worse I think. Heard it on the news this morning".
"Is it" said the checkout boy, trying his best to sound interested. He wasn't being rude. He just wasn't a fan of small talk. Questions that were probably inevitable in this kind of exchange, like "are you at uni?" and "do you live here?" almost angered him, for they were questions that were asked countless times everyday by complete strangers, people he did not know or care about. This ‘not caring' was not a lack of compassion for others, it was simply a lack of compassion for small talk. Seeing as though he was at university, a conversation about why we have religion or why some humans find small talk to be a necessity of life would be far more welcome than one about his place of residence. Life only necessitates intrusion when it is required for people to live it properly, or when it is welcomed by the recipient. But at this moment in time, immaterial conversation about the wind with a blue haired coffin dodger was not welcome.

More intentionally than not, the checkout boy blocked out the impending mind numbing the rest of the shift promised. Completely oblivious to his inattention, a middle and smoke-aged pair of women were next in line and hereby began the conversation of the day. They were not the cleverest looking people in the world. One had greasy unmanaged hair that hung down around her droopy face. She wore a fading navy blue cardigan over her shoulders and held a well used black handbag in her right hand. The other even wore greasy clothes, looking like they hadn't been washed for weeks. Her face was thin and pale, with a shoulder length ponytail pulling it back, creating an artificial facelift.


In a smoky voice she said "How do you get Buffalo chicken wings?" to Droopy.
"I don't know," she replied in a muse.
"I mean, I've never seen a buffalo with wings yet."
The checkout boy thought on in amazement, trying not to look on too obviously.
"That's true. I don't think we ever will," said Droopy.
"So where do they come from then? How do you get chicken out of a buffalo?" said Einstein.

Of all the faggots he had seen and heard in this place, these two were the biggest. He sat there in embarrassment for a few seconds, until his mind got the better of him and he did something he could not control.
"Are you fucking kidding me?" he said.
"How do you get chicken out of a buffalo?!" almost shouting, with all the sarcasm he could employ.
"What mate?" was the reply.
"I'm not your fucking mate! I'm not anybody's mate in this place! I don't want to talk to anybody about how pissing windy it is outside, or cringe anymore at how fucking ignorant people can be. Open your eyes! There's a whole beautiful universe out there with endless topics for conversation, and you're stood here talking about fucking Buffalo wings?!"
The whole store now had a strange aura about it. It was filled with hush as everybody stood still with their eyes and ears focused on the checkout boy.
"And who really gives a fuck where I live, or what I do?"
He pointed at the next woman in the queue and continued.
"You're probably gonna ask me if I'm at uni, and then tell me about your son who's at uni in Surrey or somewhere. I'll tell you now, I don't care what your son is doing and you don't care what I'm doing, so don't even ask me. I'm not singling you out, everybody does it."
His eyes scanned the store.
"Why do people find it necessary to start mindless conversations like that? Small talk is bullshit" he emphasised to a bemused crowd.
"So unless you're gonna talk to me about good literature for example, or the stars, just shut the fuck up, pay for your shopping and get out."

The checkout boy looked at the pile of food on the belt, shifted in his seat and got on with his job. It was at least a minute until anybody talked. In a peculiar but expected occurrence, the store swarmed with bemused looking faces all around him. Everybody was alone and insular now, orbiting in their own walking worlds of innocent blindness. One by one, the customers cautiously made their way to the till. Each one that had heard what the checkout boy said looked at him with the same stunned eyes, paid for their shopping and left without a single word.

One hour later, a skinny man of about six foot two approached the till and let the checkout boy do his job. He wore flimsy glasses on a gaunt face and had shaved black hair on a small head. He started packing his shopping, and mindless conversation ensued.