27. The Aldi Guy

I have to admit, I’m a little in love with the Aldi guy. I don’t know what his name is, because I never think to look at his name tag; instead I’m drawn into his incredibly sincere brown eyes. Or maybe they’re blue. In any case, they’re very sincere, and I barely notice anything else when I look into them. I’m fairly certain his name is Dan. Or Brad. Or something else with that flat “a” sound, one syllable. Solid and dependable, just like him.

The Aldi guy flirts with me a little bit every time I come in to shop and I’m lucky enough to end up in his checkout line. But he doesn’t flirt just with me. He flirts with babies and their harried mothers, 90-year-old grandpas who have trouble opening their wallets with shaking hands, the overly chatty lady with dyed red hair who openly airs the most intimate and mundane secrets of her life to anyone in the checkout line who will listen. He flirts, he converses, he smiles, he laughs. He’s concerned, helpful, polite, deferent. When he gives you your total, he makes you feel like you’ve won the lottery. He’s perfect.

Today, as I edge closer to the register, watching my wine bottles to make sure they don’t roll about with every jerk of the conveyor belt, I wonder what he’ll say to me this time. Will he ask me how I am? Will he ask me if I found everything I needed? Because, indeed, when he asks those questions with his sincere eyes, it’s not just a casual politeness. No, indeed, I am quite sure when he asks if I found everything I needed, it is far more intimate, more purposeful, more direct. He is just more earnest than one would ever expect. As if, if I would ask him to find me the ripest, most luscious strawberries, he would catapult himself out of his seat and race past the queue of dazed shoppers, straight to the refrigerated bin; he would search desperately and efficiently for the most amazing strawberries on offer and race back to the register to place them in my quivering hands, all before anyone was aware that he’d left. He’d also lovingly report that it was just my luck today, that those organic strawberries (emphasizing “organic” to compliment me on my excellent taste) were on special, only $2.99. And only for me. That’s just the kind of guy he is.

Because, you see, not only is Aldi Guy impossibly simultaneously flirtatious and earnest, but he is also incredibly fast. Not just Aldi-checker fast—which, as we know, already sets the bar inordinately high—but superhuman fast. Lightspeed fast. Like Aldi Guy should have his own comic strip, with blue and white flames coming from behind as he streaks through the frozen food section.

Aldi Guy seems to be a manager; or perhaps he just manages everyone around him so efficiently it just seems so. I certainly hope Aldi Guy’s pay is commensurate with his superhero status. Unflustered by long lines of hot and impatient customers, he counts out change with one hand while he begins scanning the next customers’ groceries with the other. He’s like a caricature of himself, like a robot programmed for engaging customers on a personal level. It’s not that he’s not genuine, it’s just that one cannot believe that level of energy, positivity, politeness, and enthusiasm could be maintained consistently for hours-long shifts by an actual human.

I’m slightly nervous as he scans my items; will I slow him down by not having my card ready? What if I can’t move the cart out of the way fast enough? Will I stumble over my words when he asks me,

“Did you find everything you needed?”

I wake up from my reverie and nod, dumbly. Those eyes, so powerful, like tractor beams. Finally I find my voice.

“Yes. Yes, I did.” I look down briefly at all the extra things in my cart I hadn’t intended to buy. “And then some.” I lift one corner of my mouth in a wry smile. I look at those eyes, hoping he got my feeble joke.

He nodded knowingly. Beep, beep, beep, taptaptaptaptap, beep…

“Yeah, it happens.” A small smile. Just for me.

“Ah, yes, are these my organic strawberries?” he asks as he places them into the cart. I am confused for a moment. Questions rush through my head:  Could he not read the label? Are all the strawberries his, or only the organic ones? Does everything in the store belong to him? 

I can come to only one conclusion:  he asked a question with an overly obvious answer just to flirt with me. I nod, and dammit if I didn’t also blush a little. Me! In all my middle-aged hausfrau glory! Blushing!

I fumble with my bag, unzipping it to find my wallet. I feel slow, awkward. I pull my credit card from its pocket and wait with it, poised over the machine. I know that I can put it in before he finishes ringing the groceries up, but part of me wants the dramatic moment, that moment when he triumphantly gives me the total, I acknowledge it, then gracefully and deliberately shove my card into its slot, hopefully with some measure of finesse.

I’m almost done, I think. Almost to the finish line. Just one more thing and I can focus on moving my cart out of this great man’s way. Do you want cash back? the machine asks. Concentrate, I think, do I? Do I need cash? No. But which button do I push? A moment’s panic as I jam my finger onto the orange button, hoping it’s the right one, too proud to pull out my reading glasses. I wait for the approval, the air feels tense. I can’t look at him. Finally, the sound of a doorbell rings and I pull my card from its slot. Approved. I am approved. My shoulders relax slightly. Our eyes meet again as he hands me the receipt. 

“You have a really great day, OK?”

I nod dumbly as I shove the receipt and my card into my pocket. 

“I will! You too!” I say, but it’s louder than I want it to be. I want to know if he noticed, but I’m too scared to look up. I wheel the cart to the counter and I shove my groceries willy-nilly into bags, but I can’t help but think that Aldi Guy is watching me out of the corner of his eye, silently condemning me for my lack of organization (the horror of putting my bread at the bottom of the bag, and not putting my refrigerated items together!), not to mention my lack of efficiency. He is kind, but he knows he’s so much better at everything than I am. He is Aldi Guy, after all.

I somehow make it out to my car to unload. I take my cart back to the corral, and have my usual tug-of-war to retrieve my quarter. I get back in my car, and as I throw my handbag onto the seat, my grocery list slips out. I only see one item on the list, not crossed off and it’s magnified as if in bold print:  MUSTARD. I forgot mustard. 

I smile as I turn out of the parking lot. Well, well, well, I say to myself.

I guess I’ll just have to come back tomorrow.