A dual narrative of checking out at the check out counter. 

by Christopher Vitiello (playing the part of the attendant) and Julia Smith-Eppsteiner (playing the part of the customer) 

The Cash Register Attendant (guy)

Let’s say a girl comes through my line. Right away I look to see if she is buying wine. If I can talk to her about wine, I can talk to her about anything.

Structure: I can talk about a firm body or a light body.  I’ll probably just say “body” a lot as we both imagine what could be hiding below the register that stands between us and true love.

Region: Too easy. Where do we want to go? Sipping Pisco while stargazing on horseback in Chile? Yea, you should try it. Hang gliding over the vineyards of Napa like on the ride ‘Soaring’ at California Adventure? Oh, you love Disneyland as well? Baja actually has some amazing vineyards in the Valle de Guadalupe. What about Los Olivos? You know they filmed Sideways there? I dabble in film a little, I’m working on a documentary right now about prison reform and recidivism.

Pairings: Cocobon and chocolate chip cookies. Homemade pizza and Montepulciano. Maybe you and I could….

She thinks we are just talking about wine, but we are talking about life, about existence, about who we are.

Perhaps I can show her how to sign her initials on the receipt with only her fingernail when she gets cash back. Or maybe just for fun I’ll look for a small child and hand them a sticker.

I have had girls open up to me more in five minutes working the register at Trader Joe’s than I have after dating them for three months. Sometimes they are the same girl. Sometimes they just want to tell me about their waxing technique or menstruation cycle or their husbands’ bowel movements. Things I never wanted to know, but things I gladly file under “The Mysteries of Women” in my card catalog.

There is an expectation between customer and employee where both parties believe that something magical is always on the verge of happening. Anything and everything I do at Trader Joe’s both perpetuates and transcends this stereotype. I spout off some bullshit factoid about frozen Brussels sprouts and suddenly I know everything about everything: I know about cool restaurants, great hiking trails, shows to see, beaches to sunbathe on, road trips to take, wineries to visit. I am a cultural sommelier. Sometimes, introducing something like cum lube for the bedroom can add an extra touch of pleasure and playfulness to our shared experiences.

Somehow over the course of the next five minutes, as I scan and bag each item, a transition is made. It’s as if I just took her laundry out of the dryer and am folding it in front of her. She is exposed. She is vulnerable. These items add up to who she is in some nonlinear form of math and now that I have meticulously gone through each one and paid it the attention it deserves, I have made the transformation from grizzled Trader Joe’s guy to The Most Interesting Man in The Checkout Line. Is this me or the Kukua beads around my neck talking? Perhaps I wield the power of the Hibiscus flower that rests on my shirt. Wait, don’t get me started on flowers, you have never seen a woman swoon more than when a tall bearded man talks about orchids.

The Customer (girl)

I just know he’s going to comment on my choice of Blanc de Blancs. Maybe I’ll slip in that I’m going to drink it on my roof with friends and some West Coast jams. Then we’ll talk about The Felice Brothers’ new album and he’ll imagine us laughing, silly dancing in minimal clothing. Then we’ll mentally rip each other’s clothes off before moving on to the Organic Blueberries and our love of all things nature. I mention how I miss California (Yes, correct, I’m very laid back.) He pictures me surfing (flexible) while eating In N’ Out (badass). Now we’re getting to the lamer items like frozen waffles and dish soap but we’re still riding the high of our wave, no worries. While scanning my “Sorry I’ve been out of touch” greeting card I picked up for 99 cents, he doesn’t just say, “That’s a great card. They’ve been clever lately!” Instead, Grizzly Joe somehow gets me to talk about my relationship with my grandma.

Next up on the scanner are my Ground Espresso 100% Arabica Beans. “Those grinds are perfectly simple. Hints of hibiscus, yeah?” All of a sudden I’m telling him about the Clever Coffee Dripper my friend got me for my birthday (hip, but not too hip). Does he take it black? Will he roast us some in the morning? “Almost as good as that New Orleans chicory blend over at Blue Bottle.” I’m a little ashamed I forgot my environmentally friendly canvas bags again, trying to keep the conversation cool to avoid the topic. I promise we’ll teach our beautiful little rascals to compost. Pinky promise.

I look into the hazel pools of his eyes, the grizzle of his “chinny-chin-chin” and hand him my plastic. I leave this fine specimen knowing everything about me but my social security number and all I know about him is the shape of his smile and his first name. They’re not winning you over for tips but for pure, unadulterated love. This must be some serious training they go through. It involves learning how to care for and revive an orchid as if it’s Easter and taking their mom on an adorable date–the feedback chart divided into the following categories: wholesomeness, gentleness, attention to detail, patience, nature knowledge, wine expertise, and most importantly, charm. This is just the beginning.

The Trader Joe’s experience is like seven minutes in heaven, except it’s about a five-minute exchange, there’s no closet, and the boys aren’t making out with your face, they’re making out with your soul. Oh and there’s an added rule to the game: the boy must have a minimum stage three beard. So, sure, I guess we can refer to them as men now. These “men” are experts at small talk, though I’m not sure we can call this experience small. It’s like we are speed dating in the Himalayas, high on Potola incense fumes, feeling big feelings. We are both deep, thoughtful humans sharing a moment of TLF (Tender Loving Fraud), and nothing can shake that magic.

I walk in with a vague list. I walk out with groceries and an imaginary boyfriend.

Julia Smith-Eppsteiner  is a New York-based writer, dance artist and lemonade maker. She’d love to hear from you (especially if you’re sassy with a heart of gold).

Christopher Vitiello is a Brooklyn-based storyteller who often wrestles with the truth.