Trish

If you know me, you are probably aware that my office is in the middle of a Central Florida swamp, rural Sanford, and the closest store is a Super Walmart. And that I go to that Super Walmart during lunch hours to buy staples and, ahem, to feel pretty. It’s not something I’m proud of, it’s just something I do.

(I probably once said I would never go to a Walmart again, but it’s not as bad as it was in the 80s and 90s, and the Sanford Target is ten miles further down the road. Also? Things are really cheap there.)

Who among you doesn’t like being the hottest person in the joint?

So I stroll around in my work clothes, feeling like the queen of the proletariat, and people sometimes ask me if I’m from England or New York, because there aren’t a lot of folks wearing Chanel-like suits and Laboutin knockoffs into the Sanford Walmart. And they don’t know that they’re knockoffs.

I usually buy about a hundred cans of Pedigree Chicken and Rice Weight Management Dog Food. Not because Mattie is fat, but because he loves eating so much. He’s always weighed fourteen point nine pounds and I think that’s what keeps him young. I also buy his Pee Pads that are a ubiquitous sight in my bathroom. (He’s got an old man’s bladder and when he has to go, it’s an emergency and I’m usually not home when the emergencies happen) Mattie is my little dog, by the way.

I also buy the generic Crystal Lite powders. Apple is my favorite.

Then I always go to Lane 6 to be rung up by Trish.

Trish is one of my favorite people I hardly know. She’s one of those delightful people that always has something random and interesting to say. She doesn’t even care if anyone is listening. She looks like she could be Sissy Spacek’s love child with Billy Bob Thornton.

I never say anything to Trish at first. I usually busy myself with organizing my items on the conveyer belt and reading the headlines of the gossip rags.

Apropos of nothing, Trish will usually just jump right into a conversation that she’s already been having somewhere else, like in her head.

Yesterday I bought my usual dog food and drink powders, and added in a dozen eggs and a new tube of mascara because that round little brush tip looked cool on the commercial. (It’s telescopic!)

Me: (silently looking at the best and worst bikini beach bodies on the Star)

Trish: (beginning to ring me up) Yeah. Garlic bread is my favorite food. It’s just good.

Me: (pause. um.) … yeah, it is.

I begin to swipe the card and start that whole process as Trish prattles on about how she ate frozen garlic bread once and sometimes she gives it to her baby when she’s teething.

Then there’s a pause, as we transition out of foods.

Trish: Yeah. My favorite team is the Colts. I have a lot of different favorite teams. Anything with a Manning, I guess.

Me: (um)… yeah

Then she sees the dog food I’m buying and transitions back to foods.

Trish: Is your dog fat? Green beans. Stop feeding him this and just feed him green beans.

Since I buy the same dog food every time, she tells me “green beans” every time. She never remembers, and I think that a short term memory is actually a good quality to have as a Walmart cashier.

Of course, due to the fact that she is so helpful and nosy, I realize that I could never buy Monistat or Metamucil or Preparation H from her. However, as long as I have my banal items, I’m always going to be in Lane 6.

And Trish is right. Garlic bread IS really good.