Spicoli Works at Giant

I have a knack of getting in the wrong line at the grocery store no matter how thoroughly I scope out the situation.  Even if there’s one little old lady with a couple of items in front of me, it will turn out that she has 12 coupons and no ID for her check.  Tonight was no exception.

I stopped at Giant after work and hopped into line behind a couple with a small cart of groceries.  I figured that couples are good.  One person unloads, and one helps bag.  It’s bound to go quickly.  I snatched up a scandal rag to check up on Kirstie’s weight gain, and read for a bit.  The reading seemed to go on a bit too long.  I transitioned to Brad and Angelina’s split, and looked up.

The checkout boy looked like this:

Hmmmm.  The husband of the couple in front was a little purple.  His wife was sweating.  They signed their receipt and ran out of the store like bats out of hell.

Spicoli, the checkout guy, slowly took each plastic bag filled with fruit, held it up, and asked, “Yo – what’re these?”

“Apricots,” I told him. “Apples, peaches. . .”  Then we came to a real stumper.

“Cilantro,” I said, as he jiggled the bag in front of him, as though there might be a fish swimming inside.

“Cool,” said Spicoli.  “How do you spell it?”

“C-I-L-. . .”

“‘S’, what?” Spicoli asked.

“No.  ‘C’,” I said.

“‘S’, what?” he asked again.

I burst out laughing.  “Are you high?” I asked.

“Not at the moment,” he assured me.

“Hand me the code sheet.  I’ll look it up for you,” I told him.

The woman in back of me snorted her impatience.  I had an insane urge to laugh uncontrollably.  Spicoli looked confusedly at some organic celery as I looked for the cilantro code.  I wondered if the woman would kill both of us.

I found the code, and Spicoli smiled happily.  “Organic celery,” I said, before he could ask.

If anyone tells you that marijuana is natural, and doesn’t hurt your brain, check out the Giant on route 724.  The checkout guy’s funny, but he’s smoked one too many doobies.