The Perfect Song Blog

Okay, I mentioned in a post somewhere that the 30×50 foot slate patio that we slaved for two years to build was half destroyed in a heavy rain storm.  Leigh and I started working on it yesterday.  Repairing it entailed lifting each stone, some of which weigh 50 pounds, pouring sand, leveling, lifting, leveling, until it matches the stone next to it.

We ran out of sand.

Over breakfast this morning I said, “I’ll go over to Lowe’s as soon as we’re done so I can beat the church crowd.”  I figured we needed about 12 bags.  So I loaded in the dogs and we headed out.  Twelve  50 pounds bags of sand.  Should take about 15 minutes.

I parked at the nursery end of Lowes, walked around, didn’t see sand, asked a sales rep.

“Where’s the construction sand?”  That was my mistake.  I take full responsibility for that.

“Construction sand is at the other end of the building.  Aisle 20, I think.”

I walked the eighth of a mile to the other end.  Other people are walking slow, shopping, thinking, getting in my way.  I make it to Aisle 20 and find construction sand.  The little label says $3.28.  That’s what I want.

I  stand in line at the service counter and wait while others check out.  It’s a warm, sunny day and I want to be outside but we need the construction sand.  When I get to the service person, I tell her I need 12 bags of construction sand.  She is a short, stocky person who has made it to her early 50s without acquiring a personality.  She looks at me mechanically like a nurse who never had compassion, and looks on the computer screen. She can’t find it.

A line is building behind me and I know at once that I am one of those people who just can’t go through a frigging line with any kind of efficiency and I’m holding up their time.

“Show me where it is,” she says, holding her scanner gun like a lethal weapon.  Holy shit!  Somewhere in the Lowe’s world, they teach sales clerks to use their scanner guns like . . .well, scanner guns!  When held in a certain way the damn things look deadly.

Okay, look at the goods, find the bar code, aim with outstretched arm, squeeze trigger until the red laser has it pinpointed and fire!  As we walked, she lowered the scanner gun safely at her side so she wouldn’t accidentally shoot any innocent stock.

I walked fast because I have this paranoia about keeping other customers waiting and, to tell you truth, because she was stocky and out of shape and I wanted her to hustle to keep up with me.

Not that I’m in good shape but it’s always a pleasure to find other people in worse shape.

I stopped at the bags of construction sand with a feeling of winning a battle.  I found something in your store that you couldn’t find in your own computer!

Without a word she lifted the gun and shot the bar code.  “How many did you want?” she dryly.  I’m not giving her enough credit.  To ask how many you want without any hint of human emotion takes practice.  Years of it, I imagine.  Yes, maybe she was born with in the inherent potential, but she had to recognize and practice it.

If Stephen Spielberg developed a robot and it asked, “How many do you want?”  It would have some emotion – and a music bed that would make you cry.

If Bill Gates developed a robot that asked you the same thing, it would sound like this woman.

“Twelve,” I said with just enough emotion to let her know that I was a human who wanted 12 bags of construction sand.

Without a word she shot the bar code 12 times.

What bothered me is that I really don’t think she enjoyed it.  I think she shot it 12 times without any feeling whatsoever.

That’s just not human.

We marched back to her counter.  The line of people was longer and I was feeling guilty as a Catholic.  I’ve known Cathlolics all my life and they make a profession of feeling guilty.  When you have something as tangible as a line of impatient Americans waiting for you to get your purchases in order, that, my friend, is reason for guilt.

The woman rang up the 12 bags of construction sand, along with the weed killer and two pair of women’s garden gloves for Leigh.

I slid my card through the machine.  She handed me the receipt to sign.  She was efficient, silent and stared straight ahead.  I could never have any kind of relationship with this woman.  As I signed the receipt I had no idea that I was going to have another meeting with her, whether I liked it or not.

“I need someone to load this for me,” I said.

She nodded and picked up the phone with the same practiced efficiency she used the laser gun .  The woman was unsettling.  “Tom to the loading dock.  Tom to the loading dock.”  She hung up the phone.

I tried to maintain some authority.  I’m 56 and I’m a customer.  I have just paid for my sand.  At the same time I’m aware of the line of people who are very close to forming a vigilante group to toss me into the concrete mixing demonstration that’s going on in the back of the building.

“I’m at the other end of the parking lot,” I said.  “It will take me a few minutes to go down and bring the car back.”

She nodded, looking at the next customer.

I could not crack this woman.

I went after the Explorer, not knowing this was only part one in an adventure that was going to take a long, long time.

More next week.