1. Happy Holidays!
I hear a few notes of “Silent Night” over the drone of the escalator. Wait, maybe it’s
“Away in a Manger.” I can’t tell. The escalator doesn’t seem loud until you work right next to it
for ten-hour shifts for ten straight days. The glass partition between my cash register and the
escalator railing has fingerprints on it again. I keep finding myself staring at holiday shoppers
who get on the moving stairs and slowly descend past me. Shopping bags crowded around their
knees, scarves loose around their necks, rosy cheeks from the wintery wind outside and the too
warm furnace temperatures inside. Most customers don’t notice me in my glass box. Right now,
I’m staring at a pretty brunette. Perfect makeup. Expensive coat. She notices I’m staring at her.
I fake a smile and look down at the keypad on the register. It’s “Silent Night.” I was right the
first time.
Despite my people watching with the escalator, my fingers fly over the numbered keys.
In Indianapolis, an office far, far away from where I actually have to work, someone in
management decided that the whole chain of the L.S. Ayres department stores is going to
upgrade to scanners. Woohoo. That will make my job easier. Unfortunately, the stages to
implement this plan are not logical. All store merchandise started arriving with a nine-digit item
number associated with a UPC code. Scan the code and you’re done, right? Unfortunately,
installing the scanners is the second stage in this plan, and the scanners have not arrived. Where
we once entered five numbers, we now must enter nine—just in time for the Thanksgiving and
Christmas busy season. God bless management.
I enter the nine-digit code of a burgundy leather handbag and strike the “total” key. I turn
to my customer, an over-bleached blonde with bad roots and a fuzzy scarf, and ask if she needs a

2. gift box. The left sleeve of her coat has powdery salt residue smudged up to her elbow. She
looks tired, and she has too many bags to carry by herself.
“No, I don’t need a box. Well…” The woman in line behind her audibly sighs. “Okay,
I’ll take a box.”
I slide the box and tissue paper into a large paper bag with the purse as I tell her the total.
She blinks at me. The wheels in her head are droning like the escalator. I can hear them. The
woman in line behind her is tap dancing from impatience. The next sixty seconds of credit card
exchange and signature feel much longer.
As per store security, I then must take her receipt and staple it to the outside of the double
folded edge of the bag as well as staple several more times across the top of the bag. Evidently,
sealing all the store bags in this manner will help prevent theft. Each cash register is equipped
with a massive stapler that looks like something from your dad’s toolbox in the garage. It is an
incredible stapler, and I want one for Christmas. With the smallest amount of practice, I learned
to pop four or more staples across the top of a bag in the time it takes to blink your eye.
“Thank you very much, Mrs. Jonesbryantsmith. Happy holidays!” I chime at her as I
hand her the stapled bag. The woman behind her is pushing bleached-blonde’s packages off to
the side in order to get to the counter. My smile is still frozen on my face.
“Happy holidays!” I repeat as she scuffles away under her load. My new customer slams
a large tote bag, a mitten and scarf set, and a half dozen pairs of knee-high argyle socks on the
counter between us. She is not smiling.
“Finally!” she says loudly. I glance over her shoulder and count five more heads in line
behind her. I’m going as fast as I can and with this fake smile hurting my cheeks.
“Did you find everything you need?” I ask. She rolls her eyes and tightens her ski jacket
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3. coat sleeves tied around her waist. Her teal jacket does not match the red stocking knit hat
pulled down over her dark brown curls. Her University of Michigan sweatshirt has a big stain on
the “M”. I snatch her items off the counter and turn to the cash register. I decide being
completely polite with this one isn’t necessary. She just wants speed. Without making eye
contact, I ask over my shoulder if she needs boxes.
“Yes.” I’m shoving the socks into the store bag on top of her other merchandise filling
up the bag completely. I can barely get the top to fold over in order to staple it closed.
“You don’t have to staple my bag. I’m in a hurry.”
“Sorry, ma’am, but it’s story policy.” I reach for another store bag and put her gift boxes
in this bag as she’s signing her receipt. I staple the receipt to the first bag and attempt to place
the bag on the counter. However, she snatches at the bag before I let go. I pick up the box bag
and fold over the top edge to staple it shut. Pop. Pop. She reaches for the bag in my hand. Pop.
I staple my finger as she jerks on the bag.
First, I look at her. A brief look of alarm crosses her face, she sputters, “Oh, oh.” We
both look down at my finger. I have a staple sticking out of the tip of my second finger on my
left hand. Blood oozes out around the staple and drips down onto the store bag of gift boxes.
The Christmas trees printed on the side of the bag are quickly decorated with a half dozen bright
red ornaments. I put the stapler and the bag down on the counter. She turns and walks away
without the bloodied bag. Everyone in line, mouths agape, watches her walk away with her
snow boots quickly swishing against each other. I’m surprised she doesn’t break into a run.
I whip around and throw open the cleaning cabinet containing Windex and paper towels.
My finger is dripping blood on the carpet now. The paper towels help contain the mess, but the
staple is still sticking out of my finger. Don’t panic. What am I supposed to do according to
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4. story policy, I ask myself. Security. Always call security if there is an injury. I lift the receiver
and dial the office. I calmly explain that I have an injury and I am bleeding. I hear the woman in
charge of the security department drop the phone. Bloodshed is her worst nightmare for her job.
“Where are you?” she yells while scrambling to get control of the receiver.
“Accessories Department. Top of the escalator.”
After I hang up, I turn back around to the line of customers. Every single one of them is
standing there looking at me. I take a deep breath and assume my smile.
“Did you find everything you need today?” A bright, blue-eyed older lady puts several
pairs of panty hose on the counter. Her teased blue hair matches her eyes. She stares at my
wrapped up finger and then gives me a shy smile. I quickly adapt to a one-handed method of
ringing up, bagging, and stapling. The sale doesn’t take much longer than usual, and I finish
with the usual “Thank you, Mrs. Bryantjonessmith. Happy holidays!”
The next customer in line is a tall man with crinkles around his brown eyes. His hair is a
wreck from a knit hat. “I’m sorry but can I see some gloves?” he asks while trying not to look at
my bleeding finger. The leather gloves are locked in the glass case that is the countertop
separating me from the line of customers. He indicates several pairs, and I pull them out for him
to inspect. While he’s looking, I begin to ring up the scarves and mittens of the next customer, a
pretty blond in a long black coat. She keeps on eye on my bleeding hand while I work. I bet she
goes home and inspects her goods for spots of blood. I can’t blame her.
In mid-sale, the security manager, Pat, shows up with a massive first aid kit. She is out of
breath. I know she ran because I could see her coming up the escalator double-time from my
vantage point. When she realizes that I’m still ringing up sales, she lets out a huge sigh of relief.
“You’re okay?”
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5. “Yes, but I’m still bleeding. Plus there’s the issue of the staple still stuck in my finger.”
She cracks open the first aid kit on the counter. The man with the leather gloves shifts
slightly closer to us eyeing the contents of the box and the impending medical procedure.
Tweezers, disinfectant, gauze, tape. My finger is throbbing by now.
“You’ll have to get a tetanus shot if you haven’t had one recently. Security will need a
copy of your shot record in order to close the case,” Pat explains as she finishes with the tape.
The pretty blonde looks at Pat and says, “It wasn’t her fault.” The man with gloves nods
in agreement. Pat starts to pack up the first aid kit. Effortlessly, I smile and get back to the
blonde’s scarves and mittens. I can hear the two customers telling Pat what the perpetrator
looked like. I can’t stop smiling now, and I don’t notice pain in my cheeks. I turn back to the
blonde with her total. Within seconds, I’ve bagged and stapled her sale. She manages to say
“Happy holidays” to me before I instinctively utter the closing line.
“Thank you, Mrs. Smithjonesbryant. Happy holidays to you too!”
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6. “Yes, but I’m still bleeding. Plus there’s the issue of the staple still stuck in my finger.”
She cracks open the first aid kit on the counter. The man with the leather gloves shifts
slightly closer to us eyeing the contents of the box and the impending medical procedure.
Tweezers, disinfectant, gauze, tape. My finger is throbbing by now.
“You’ll have to get a tetanus shot if you haven’t had one recently. Security will need a
copy of your shot record in order to close the case,” Pat explains as she finishes with the tape.
The pretty blonde looks at Pat and says, “It wasn’t her fault.” The man with gloves nods
in agreement. Pat starts to pack up the first aid kit. Effortlessly, I smile and get back to the
blonde’s scarves and mittens. I can hear the two customers telling Pat what the perpetrator
looked like. I can’t stop smiling now, and I don’t notice pain in my cheeks. I turn back to the
blonde with her total. Within seconds, I’ve bagged and stapled her sale. She manages to say
“Happy holidays” to me before I instinctively utter the closing line.
“Thank you, Mrs. Smithjonesbryant. Happy holidays to you too!”
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