How Do I Put Into Words?

A little essay.

It’s Friday morning at the store. An unseasonably warm, dry air has prompted us to wedge open the doors, and this overrides the bell that dings when a customer comes in. We have to pay extra attention now.

How do I put into words the customer who comes in, a middle-aged, well-dressed woman in designer jeans and canvas bags in tow, who points to me and says, “Could you come with me? I’d like to show you something.” She guides me to the back of the store, my least favorite place—the cat food section. Canned cat foods, hundreds of varieties. The cutesy packaging gets on my nerves. There’s Tiki Cat Velvet Mousse After Dark and Weruva Kitty Gone Wild: Wild Salmon Recipe Au Jus. She’d like me to know that she lives far away. She’s stressed about money. She takes care of her mother. Her cat is picky. Could I please send a complaint to the cat food company that makes the variety pack look just like the minced tuna pack? Why do they both have to be the same color, a bright sky blue with white letters, a cartoon fish eating the words? I tell her sure, I can put it in the system. I suppose this is possible, though I’m not sure. I stand there for a few more minutes as she releases her anger. I guide her back to the register. I reassure her of our generous return policy and tell her to take care. I tell all customers this. I’m not sure why. It seems like the most humane way of saying, I see you, and I’m sorry.

How do I put into words the awkward teenage girl who comes into the store and tells me she is there to fill an Instacart order? I notice her fawning over the cat collars, their whimsical patterns and jingle bells, as I walk back with the order. Two twenty-pound bags of our most high-end dog kibble. I tell her it’s heavy, ask if she needs help. She struggles and then hobbles out the doors. I hear her scream, “Help me!” to a man with a braided ponytail sitting in the front seat of a beat-up white pickup truck. I assume he’s her father. He gets out of the car and helps her chuck the two bags into the bed of the truck. I wonder which fancy neighborhood they’ll be driving to. And how far the money will go.

How do I put into words the older woman who comes into the store because her son’s service dog needs food? She doesn’t usually do this. Can I look up what the dog eats, she asks? I say I can and print out the last order on her family’s account. Then I walk around the store and help her find it. Two bags of kibble, a variety pack of dog chews. As I go to ring up her order, she starts having a coughing attack. I stand there motionless as she hacks away, bracing herself on the counter. She wastes her precious breaths of air apologizing to me and fiddles with her purse until a prescription bottle is found. I run to the back of the store and ask my manager if I can give her a bottle of water. We only have cups from the staff kitchen. I hear her still coughing and rush the cup of water to the front. She tells me I’m too kind. Takes one sip of the water and apologizes profusely. I tell her please don’t worry. Then I carry the food out to her car. I feel, in some strange way, as if I know her. She tells me in a voice too intimate for our brief encounter, “Thank you, you’re the best.”

I tell her to please take care.