THE CHRISTMAS LIE
(an essay from the vault)
A week before Christmas, I lug an overflowing grocery bag (laden with the consequences of shopping while hungry) to the pharmacy at the back of the store. Two pharmacy windows are open, but there’s no clerk in sight. I hesitate and then walk up to window #1. I drop the grocery bag, which lands on my toe. For every routine prescription purchase, you need to prove you are neither an imposter nor impatient. I spread the necessaries on the counter next to my purse: wallet, driver’s license, insurance card, ten-dollar bill, and reading glasses.
The clerk appears at window #2.
She inserts a key into the register and sighs out the weight of the world. “I can help you over here.”
The pharm department is where I practice total surrender. The clerks aren’t in charge. Like the customers, they’re at the mercy of the machines. If register #2 is working, register #1 is down. Today, the intercom must be on the fritz; there’s no Christmas music.
I say, “Give me a minute to pack up.”
When she notices all my paraphernalia on the counter, her expression softens. “That’s okay. I’ll come over there.”
This flexibility is totally unexpected. I push the heavy bag off my toe. “Oh, wow. Thanks so much.”
The sound of breaking glass splinters the air. “Clean-up on aisle five.” Intercom works.
Maybe the clerk recognizes me; she’s usually on duty during my prescription runs. Though we’ve never had a conversation, I always worry about her. She seems forever oppressed and resigned to the oppression. An automaton, leashed to the register, by way of the lanyard around her neck, from which the keys dangle.
I hand her my driver’s license and insurance card. “I'm picking up a prescription.”
As the machine searches for me, the Christmas lie starts.
I ask the clerk, “You finish your shopping?”
I’m shocked this question comes out of my mouth, because it will lead to a conversation about Christmas, which I have purposely not participated in since the first George Bush administration. No cards, no carols, no chestnuts roasting on an open fire.
The clerk grins at me like a little girl admitting to being on the naughty list. I’ve never seen her smile, and this is a grin that takes the chill out of the air. She holds my license and card out to me. “No,” she says. “How about you?”
“Nope.”
What is wrong with me?
Technically, I’m not finished with shopping, since I never started. Right? So, it’s not a full-blown lie.
I slip the license and card into my wallet. “Well, I thought I was done, and then I remembered one more present.” Okay, now it’s a full-blown lie.
The clerk is nodding, chuckling. After she retrieves the prescription from a shelf, I hand her the ten.
Holding out my palm for the dollar she’s going to put in it, I’m blinded by the happy that’s shining from her face. The lie keeps going. “The other day, I got home and then completely changed my mind about something I’d decided not to buy the day before.”
What? Whose life am I talking about?
The clerk laughs, and it jingles like sleigh bells. She says, “Yeah, Sometimes I’m looking so hard at something in the store, I swear I’ve already bought it. Get home and realize I didn’t buy it after all. Then I have to go back out.”
I slip on my glasses, as she hands me the prescription and a dollar change. Checking the paperwork to make sure the drugs are actually mine, I laugh along with her. Co-conspirators.
Prescription in grocery bag, dollar bill in wallet, wallet in purse, purse in one hand, grocery bag in the other, I wave at the clerk over my shoulder, “See you at Target.”
She waves back. “Ain’t it the truth?”
Well, no. I won’t see her at Target, because I’ll be in Hell for lying about Jesus’s birthday.
But, as I make my way to the front doors, her chuckle floats behind me, and my grocery bag is as light as a snowflake.
(an essay from the vault)
A week before Christmas, I lug an overflowing grocery bag (laden with the consequences of shopping while hungry) to the pharmacy at the back of the store. Two pharmacy windows are open, but there’s no clerk in sight. I hesitate and then walk up to window #1. I drop the grocery bag, which lands on my toe. For every routine prescription purchase, you need to prove you are neither an imposter nor impatient. I spread the necessaries on the counter next to my purse: wallet, driver’s license, insurance card, ten-dollar bill, and reading glasses.
The clerk appears at window #2.
She inserts a key into the register and sighs out the weight of the world. “I can help you over here.”
The pharm department is where I practice total surrender. The clerks aren’t in charge. Like the customers, they’re at the mercy of the machines. If register #2 is working, register #1 is down. Today, the intercom must be on the fritz; there’s no Christmas music.
I say, “Give me a minute to pack up.”
When she notices all my paraphernalia on the counter, her expression softens. “That’s okay. I’ll come over there.”
This flexibility is totally unexpected. I push the heavy bag off my toe. “Oh, wow. Thanks so much.”
The sound of breaking glass splinters the air. “Clean-up on aisle five.” Intercom works.
Maybe the clerk recognizes me; she’s usually on duty during my prescription runs. Though we’ve never had a conversation, I always worry about her. She seems forever oppressed and resigned to the oppression. An automaton, leashed to the register, by way of the lanyard around her neck, from which the keys dangle.
I hand her my driver’s license and insurance card. “I'm picking up a prescription.”
As the machine searches for me, the Christmas lie starts.
I ask the clerk, “You finish your shopping?”
I’m shocked this question comes out of my mouth, because it will lead to a conversation about Christmas, which I have purposely not participated in since the first George Bush administration. No cards, no carols, no chestnuts roasting on an open fire.
The clerk grins at me like a little girl admitting to being on the naughty list. I’ve never seen her smile, and this is a grin that takes the chill out of the air. She holds my license and card out to me. “No,” she says. “How about you?”
“Nope.”
What is wrong with me?
Technically, I’m not finished with shopping, since I never started. Right? So, it’s not a full-blown lie.
I slip the license and card into my wallet. “Well, I thought I was done, and then I remembered one more present.” Okay, now it’s a full-blown lie.
The clerk is nodding, chuckling. After she retrieves the prescription from a shelf, I hand her the ten.
Holding out my palm for the dollar she’s going to put in it, I’m blinded by the happy that’s shining from her face. The lie keeps going. “The other day, I got home and then completely changed my mind about something I’d decided not to buy the day before.”
What? Whose life am I talking about?
The clerk laughs, and it jingles like sleigh bells. She says, “Yeah, Sometimes I’m looking so hard at something in the store, I swear I’ve already bought it. Get home and realize I didn’t buy it after all. Then I have to go back out.”
I slip on my glasses, as she hands me the prescription and a dollar change. Checking the paperwork to make sure the drugs are actually mine, I laugh along with her. Co-conspirators.
Prescription in grocery bag, dollar bill in wallet, wallet in purse, purse in one hand, grocery bag in the other, I wave at the clerk over my shoulder, “See you at Target.”
She waves back. “Ain’t it the truth?”
Well, no. I won’t see her at Target, because I’ll be in Hell for lying about Jesus’s birthday.
But, as I make my way to the front doors, her chuckle floats behind me, and my grocery bag is as light as a snowflake.