I have stood in the same spot of this store every day for 16 years. I love watching people, their shopping habits, the way they interact, and what they buy. I now look forward to seeing some of the regulars. Even though I don’t know most of their names, I feel I know so much about them from observing them and their purchases.

For example, Mr. Bashful comes in the first Wednesday of each month promptly at 9:15; he likes to get a jump on the day. Early morning in the middle of the week, he can get in and get out without dealing with any of the evening or weekend crowds. I think he arrives fifteen minutes after opening time so as not to appear pushy and to give the employees a few minutes to prepare for the day ahead. He is so sweet and timid. He always parks his cart in front of me while he pours a small cup of the complimentary coffee for himself. I know the coffee is just a cover. He only sips the coffee as he strolls up and down every aisle. Only I am allowed to watch him find the grocery list, arrange his coupons, and discretely count the food stamps. I don’t know why, after all these years, he is still embarrassed about using them.

Others aren’t as reserved as Mr. Bashful; they blaze through here on a mission. Lady Executive is the complete opposite of him. She always arrives shortly before closing. She snatches one of the hand baskets, flips out a PDA for her objectives, and makes only the necessary stops. I bet, as she approaches the entrance, she is carefully calculating the most efficient route through the store. She goes for the name brand items: Diet Coke®, Healthy Choice®, Starbucks®, etc. No store labels or generics for her. Lady Executive doesn’t stock up like Mr. Bashful, she buys what is needed for the next night or two.
She never glances my way.

Ms. Patchouli comes in late in the afternoon. She glides through the place with a peaceful grin, usually trailed by her signature fragrance and her son, Marley. Ms. Patchouli keeps her hair in dreadlocks, has a nose ring, and wears flowing skirts with exotic prints. Marley wears lots of tie-dye t-shirts and Birkenstocks, if he isn’t scampering around barefoot. Mr. Burgess, the store manager, can’t stand it but he quit lecturing them long ago.

At the final confrontation, Burgess called Ms. Patchouli to the side and scolded her for the son’s lack of footwear. I felt really uncomfortable standing so closely to them as he threatened to ban her from the store. She, however, was unfazed. Ms. Patchouli smiled serenely, nodded, and airily agreed that it would never happen again. “Come on, Marley,” she called cheerfully. “We’ve got some shoppin’ to do.” Her son bound over to her then jumped and landed on me sharply. I thought for certain he knocked my alignment off that day.

“Now, Marley,” she cautioned. You can’t jump on the scale like that. It’s bad for it. You could hurt it or yourself. Okay?”

“Okay, mommy. I just wanted to see the dial spin real fast. I won’t do it again.” Then he leaned over, patted me gently, and said, “Sorry, Mr. Scale.”
Who could stay mad at a kid like that?

Most customers are usually on and off my pad in mere moments; they move on without giving me a second thought. It’s quite interesting to watch the different reactions. Men are generally unaffected by my information. The number is noted and remembered but has no real impact. Of course, the jocks from the local high school come by in a group and compare numbers. They hop on and brag about their gains. One will say something like, “Dude, look at me! I’ve added 5 pounds of muscle.” One of the others invariable replies by patting the first on the belly and saying, “Yeah, you’ve added mass all right.” Women tend to take my readings more seriously. The number is usually receives a grimace, a sigh, or wince. I’ve lost track of how many times I’ve heard, “If I could only lose ten pounds …”

My favorite story occurred several months ago. This slender young lady named Isabelle stopped her husband on their way out. She climbed on me for a quick reading after passing him the plastic bag she had been carrying. Just as my needle settled on 112, I heard another exiting patron yell, “You’ll never be happy!”
Isabelle tried to call back, “I am happy!” but the reply was lost since the other woman was already out the door. With a bewildered look hanging on her face, Isabelle turned to her husband. “I am happy,” she said matter-of-factly.
“I know, Isabelle. Just ignore her. She doesn’t even know you. She probably thinks your anorexic or bulimic or something.”
“Whatever,” she said and shrugged her shoulders. The couple walked out hand in hand, chuckling about the bizarre incident.

My least favorite story happened one evening last week around dusk. This guy skulked into the market with the gravest expression across his face. Right away I could something was wrong with this one. His stringy, dark hair was disheveled. In fact, his entire appearance was slightly askew. His shirt was missing a button, his ill fitting trousers strained around the zipper, and the hem of the pants hovered two inches above his scuffed and unevenly worn shoes. Except for the dark circles around his eyes, his skin was a disturbing yellowish gray. The color reminded me of those aged newspapers Burgess recently hauled away; apparently, those papers lay in the back of the stockroom for years. He was a mess. As he crept apprehensively toward me, he muttered something to himself. I couldn’t make it out at first. “Two hundred. Two hundred. As long as it’s under two hundred, I’ll be fine.”

When he lumbered onto me, I saw the desperation. I knew as soon as the full weight settled on me that the gauge was going a bit further than anticipated. Never before have I wished that I could stop my needle from turning, to make it rest prematurely. I was powerless to alter the results. I can’t manipulate the facts; I have to give the numbers as they are … that’s what I do.

When that thin red line drifted to a stop on 203, the tears began to well in his eyes. He wanted to scream. I’m sure he was screaming and wailing and crying and falling apart inside.

He took an audible breath, stepped down from me, turned sharply, and headed for the health and beauty aisle. He only made one other stop: the household and school supplies lane. He checked out at Register Eight so I couldn’t tell what exactly he had purchased. It couldn’t have been much because he didn’t even use one of the handheld baskets. I thought I saw that sleep aid on the conveyor belt. For a month, I faced a six-foot tall display featuring that teal box with photo of a woman resting in bed. As a result, I can usually spot that box in cart as far away as frozen foods. I thought I saw the bagger toss some scissors and razor blades in the bag with a couple of other things. Maybe he went home and cleaned himself up with the health and beauty items. Maybe after a good night’s rest, he’ll feel better and try his luck with me again.

Like I mentioned, it’s been over a week since he visited the store. I hope he comes by soon and is feeling better. Hope I can give him better news next time.