Of Aprons and Tomatoes

A short story

When they handed me the stiff, crisp dark blue apron, I chuckled to myself as I reflected on my first job where I also wore an apron very similar to the one I had in my hands. I thought to myself, “Will I ever escape from the apron world?” I brushed that very small issue aside and took my apron and shirt and went home. I would start my first day of work the following morning, a Thursday which was perfect for me because I had no school that day. I put on my apron before I left my home like a good new employee, and was on my way. As I pulled into the large grocery store parking lot, I steered my eyes toward the area where I was told we as employees could park. I did so still cautious if it was the right area or not (I was nervous because when I filled out my employment papers, there was a blank provided for my license plate number, for the reason of my car being ticketed if I parked in a no employee parking-zone area). All the same I liked to think I was going to be ok. I walked into the store, feeling a bit shy due to the fact that every employee was probably looking at me because they knew I was new. I was afraid that I’d walk the wrong way or open the back door the wrong way, or that my kakis were the wrong wash or that my hair was too simple! Are all new employees that paranoid? So I went to the back room to clock in. I was feeling pretty excited to finally do it myself; the previous day during “tour” time I observed various employees bush fifteen buttons then swipe this cool card then press another seven buttons. I remember thinking I could not wait until I was not “new” anymore.

I clocked in that Thursday morning, feeling one step closer to being learned. When I was done (it only took 18 seconds) I turned around and stood still for a moment or two bewildered at what I should do next. Where was my supervisor who would come and rescue me from this dark hallway? I didn’t know if I should go out to the front or find a dark corner and wait till someone found me. I hated standing there looking “new”. Finally, surprised that I had to be the one to tell someone I was new, told some random person in an apron that I was new and was looking for a manager. I was found and put right to work behind the register. As a kid I remember taking field trips to a Museum for children and there was a pretend grocery store. I thought it was the most fun activity in all the world. I remember I always wanted to be the cashier and make the beep noise as other kids brought their plastic peppers and cereal boxes to the black conveyer belt. As I stood there with my manager standing right behind me literally breathing down my neck watching the ever move of my fingers and toes, I took the first item and as slow as I could be, (not on purpose) I ran it along the scanner. BEEP it was in the computer: WF BL BEANS. As if I wasn’t feeling dumb enough that I took five minutes to ring up two boxes of cereal and some more canned beans, my manager would slip out random side notes about everything. It wasn’t that I was doing everything wrong, she was just giving good pointers and I appreciated it. Things were going pretty good as I tried my hardest to make eye contact with the customer AND slide their grocery items, AND make conversation with them, AND continue to bare the embarrassment of my manager right behind me telling all that I am brand new. I remember when I worked at an ice cream parlor, new employees had to wear a tag that said they were new. Can a sigh of relief ring through the store? That would be excruciatingly painful to bare but I suppose having someone stand behind you telling what to do comes pretty close.

As time goes on (which passes very quickly here in the grocery store world) I notice the produce coming forth. For once in my life, I had a smart moment and knew there would not be a bar code on these thin plastic bags. I grabbed the Tomatoes, “What do I do with these?” I ask humbly. The reply comes, “set it on the scale to be weighed then type in 9133”. I did so and it rang up TOM ROMA. The dark days have begun. A code for ever produce item, and eventually I’d come to learn that there would be a code for every kind of tomato- is there a trap door underneath my shoes I can refer to? Each check stand came with a code sheet for every item that is in stock. I don’t know why I didn’t use this right away because Instead I turned around and asked the cashier behind me or if I had to, called out to a manager which I hated doing! I hated asking people. I was so caught up in how annoying it was so type in so many codes all starting with a 4, that I didn’t realize that soon I will have most of the common ones down! 4066 4070 4011 4068 4187 4062 why don’t we just add Pi 3.145673847382947398147398?! It seems just as complicated! I was amazed that other employees could just shout out a four digit code while having already memorized sixteen other codes. Oh the day when I can punch in that code on my own!

Now Tomatoes are like beetles; they don’t taste very pleasant and they are squishy; the way they nestle in my palms as I gently take hold of them to lift them up and then set them back down on the scale. A certain kind of Tomato came through, they were called Zebra- a much more expensive breed due to their exquisitely sword shaped green leaves that embrace the rounded tomato. Why are there so many different kinds of tomatoes and what makes them more expensive than the other? The soil which nourishes and produces such crimson fruit? I was sure at one point in my life that the earth holds soil of it’s own unique kind. Unless you go to China, I’ve heard their soil is much much colder and can cause fevers when in contact with human skin. I am not exactly sure why this is nor do I ever care to be sure because Tomatoes are unpleasant unless they are chopped in flea sized pieces mixed with refried beans and guacamole that came from a fresh pillow soft Avocado on sale for 99 cents--delicious.

My hands grow pretty dirty through out the day which means my poor dark blue apron becomes filthy as well, we’re like a team my apron and I, we both grow with filth and dislike tomatoes (juicy tomato juice does not perform an artistic masterpiece on dark blue). I’d like to say it is because of those retched tomatoes, but I cannot do so because they are safely secured in those dinky thin plastic bags they provide for you at the produce section. I could tear through those bags with my eyelashes. Maybe I should try doing that some time because forty-seven out of fifty-three customers will have tomatoes in their cart. Thank goodness they are scent free in those one penny bags.

I once knew of a a girl who could eat tomatoes like apples and grape tomatoes like grapes. I wish I could do that, they are truly healthy…but I still won’t do it, throw me an apple and I’m off both sugar and fat! We as a human race are so interesting in our differences in what we like and dislike. I love refried beans, you hate them. I hate banana peppers, you eat them for a snack. Why can’t we all like Tomatoes…uh…did I just admit that I wish I liked tomatoes? Ok I will admit it-they are so healthy and of a pretty color and they are abundant in variety. Enough of this poor allowance of tiny slivers of smashed tomatoes in my salad or bean dip. Is it possible to teach our minds to like a food of which we never have? At the end of the day, as I exit my check stand and release my till from the register to go to the back and enjoy recounting what I’ve been entering and receiving for seven hours, I untie my loosened apron bow, and hang it up on the trail of hooks, and gaze outward from the large windows overlooking the entire store. As the vegetales vegetables say, “If you like to talk to Tomatoes…” Another day of Tomatoes I say to myself. Perhaps tomorrow I will like them.

The End