The Hand Painted Car

It was this same summer that I saw the hand painted car.  The particular Saturday I saw the car it was in the middle of the day around two pm.  Between one and four PM is considered "the heat of the day", and like I said earlier, normal people try to stay cool during these hours.  Being a Sacker, I was obviously not normal as I stood in my black polyester pants, white polyester shirt, and blue striped polyester tie. 

Then again all the other Sackers were so attired, so I felt, if not normal, at least not singled out in my goofy uniform.  My shift started at nine, and by now it was two and the temperature on this day  was easily over one hundred and ten.  Had we not been sitting on five square acres of asphalt, the earth might have absorbed some of the heat, instead it all just collected at about head level. 

If the store managers had the sense God gave seafood, they would have had us out in pith helmets to keep our heads from cooking, cotton clothes that breathed, and made sure we took salt pills and drank plenty of water. . .not Dr. Pepper.

The other factor that influenced the sackers was the store's air conditioning.  Since it was so darned hot outside, and the glass automatic doors were continually fanning as people came and went, it was necessary to keep the store relatively cool so that the frozen food would not melt.  My best guess is that it was kept around sixty-eight degrees year round.

 I'm not a medical doctor, but it does not take a doctorate from med school to figure out constant (twenty times an hour) temperature fluctuations of FORTY TWO DEGREES is not healthy for growing boys.

 I had a terrible head-ache, and I stank.  Each time I went outside, I sweated, and when I came back in, it dried.  Fifty repetitions later, I smelled bad enough to gag a buzzard.  As you probably know, a Sacker's main job is to sack groceries and carry them to the shopper's car.  At some stores the baggers get tips for their work, as well as an hourly wage (note that the baggers are happier at these stores). 

At our store we were paid only an hourly wage, and very few people tipped.  So we only smiled as we day-dreamed of being eyeball deep in cool water, or what we would do with all of our money, or how neat it will be to quit being a sacker.

Day-dreaming was very important to survival as a sacker.  No one could possibly listen to the ladies as they lectured you about taking care of their produce and bread.  "The last time I was here, the sacker squashed my bread with a cantaloupe, and the eggs had cans put on top of them, and blah, blah, blah." 

Sure lady.  Yeah lady.  Whatever-you-say lady.  Really, I shouldn't put the bananas on the bottom of the bag… on top of the cake?  Gee, what a revelation!  Thanks for the tip.

But day-dreaming is not a desirable trait as a Checker.  I learned that by filling in for one on a busy day and overcharging some guy one-hundred dollars on his groceries.  The funny part was that he paid it!  He later came storming in wanting his money, the manager called me over to show me the receipt.  I was supposed to feel really bad about it, and of course we gave him his money back, but I kept thinking, "How can he be mad at ME?   He's the one that paid two-hundred forty dollars for six sacks of groceries!"  Needless to say, they did not let me check out customers after that incident.

So while I stood there hot and smelly, I dutifully put item after item in this lady's bags.  It dawned on me that neither the lady nor her three kids were talking much.  I was immediately struck by the resemblance this family had to the actors in "The Grapes of Wrath" movie they made us watch in History class. 

The kids had big unblinking eyes and all stared at me except to ask their "Ma" for some candy.  Their mother had the hard miles look of a woman who washes all the family's clothes in a tub on the porch.  She clutched her purse and watched every item being rung up as if her life depended on it.  When she talked it was only the minimum amount of energy necessary to force sound from her lips. "Clem, quit poken yer sister."  Oh well, back to day dreaming, I've seen country folk before.

 After she paid, I followed her and her three kids out of the store into the sweltering heat and light.  Sweat immediately ran down my face as she led me to her car and opened the back door to let her kids inside.  I had never seen an uglier car.  This four door unrecognizable Dodge something-or-other was hand- painted day-glow green.  By hand-painted, I mean someone used their hand to hold the paint brush as they slopped the glowing paint on the car!  Why didn't they just take the poor thing out to a wrecking yard and shoot it!  Now I had my mouth open, and was glassy eyed.  The heat and the sight had me dumbfounded and zombie-like as I loaded the groceries into the back seat with the children. 

I wasn't paying any attention to what I was doing as the children hopped around in the seat trying not to stick to the hot, black vinyl as I put the last bag in and closed the door.  I looked up from the door handle right into the eyes of Clem.  His eyes were watering and his mouth moved without making a sound.  I pondered the sight.  His face was drained of color.  Funny kid, I thought. 

Soon his eyes were bulging.  Before I could figure out what the kid was up to, I heard his mother speaking over my shoulder in her same measured tone.  "You shut his fingers in the dow-wer." 

What, his what? I asked.  What's a dow-wer?" She pointed to the boy's hand stuck in the door near the window jam.  More forcefully this time: "His fingers are shut in the dow-wer!"