This summary is of a short story told from the perspective of Donald, a college student who works as a cashier at a supermarket. Donald develops friendly relationships with regular customers, including a woman who buys pistachio ice cream for her sick brother. When the brother passes away from cancer, Donald is saddened. He then asks his coworker April, with whom he has been flirting, out on a date after realizing he does not want to miss opportunities.

1. about 1,600 words
Emily Espey
8424 Dogwood Rd
Windsor Mill, MD, 21244
410-298-1309
heartsfullofspring@gmail.com
THE FRIENDLY FOOD PEOPLE
by E.G. Peck
Forget what they say about judging books by their covers—
all you need is groceries. Take it from me. My name is Donald,
and I’m a friendly food person. At least, that’s what it says on
my nametag. I work at Mars. The super market, not the planet.
College doesn’t pay for itself.
I meant what I said about groceries. You can tell a lot
about a person by what they buy at the supermarket--and how they
pay for it. For example, I can spot a food stamp purchase before
the swipe of a card. The cart is a mountain of junk food and

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frozen dinners, and the total runs well over a hundred. The
health freaks buy bananas and energy bars, and then there’s
always that Asian guy pushing a cartful of sodas to resell,
regardless of whether or not they’re on sale.
I’ve only been here six months. Minimum wage isn’t anything
to boast about, but it’s kind of fun once you get the hang of
it. The boss is easygoing, and there’s this one cute cashier who
works the same evenings as me. Her name’s April. She’s got
honey-brown hair and all these freckles. We make lots of eye
contact, but nothing more. I never took any steps to really talk
to her, I guess because I’m a coward and I always figured she’d
still be there next shift. That all changed a week ago.
It started with a regular who used to come in twice a week.
The first time she came in, she threw lots of vegetarian stuff
on the belt and one of those little Hagen Daas ice creams,
pistachio flavored. She had a face that could’ve been beautiful
if it weren’t so tired. When I asked her how she was doing
today, she replied, “Taking it as it comes.” Life can’t be that
tough, can it? Her worries, whatever they were, weighed so
heavily on her that I started to feel them myself. It wasn’t a
great feeling. I wanted to crack a joke to cheer us both up but
I couldn’t think of any, so I just handed her the receipt and
told her to have a great evening.

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Two nights later I was stationed in the lane next to April.
In the middle of a big order, her customer, a balding guy in a
pin-stripe suit, started heckling her about the price of a honey
bear. She turned brown eyes on me and asked for a price check. I
rushed to oblige. Where do you keep honey?! Maybe with the
spices…? I trotted back with a sheepish grin, empty-handed.
“What aisle is it?”
She grinned in spite of herself. “How should I know? You’ve
been here longer than me!”
“Only by like a month,” I protested, dashing off again.
I found it eventually. $2.49. Rushing back, I saw the girl
with the tired face ready to check out.
“I’m open down here,” I said.
I gave April the price just as the girl started emptying
groceries onto my belt. She lifted each item with the strength
of a mouse. A bag of peaches, Boca burgers, another pistachio
Hagen Daas, and a steak. I gave her a questioning look as I
bagged the steak.
“You eat beef?”
“Oh no,” she said, “that’s for my brother. So is the ice
cream. It’s his favorite.”
“How old is he?”

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“About your age. Eighteen.” She cracked a smile. Success.
“Actually, you know, you look a little like him. His eyes are
like yours.”
“He must be all right then,” I joked while she slid her
visa card. “Tell him to enjoy that steak.”
She left looking slightly less beat, and for the rest of my
shift I felt like a hundred bucks. From then on, twice a week,
she always came down my lane--even when the line snaked into the
aisle. She always had that tired look about her, that overcast
presence, and I made it my mission to make sure she wore a smile
by the time she left. Always there was pistachio ice cream, and
sometimes a steak. Once she asked if we sold composition
notebooks; her brother liked to write. I consulted April.
“You know I’m clueless,” she said with an apologetic smile.
I did know, but I liked asking her anyway.
Things went on like this for a while--coaxing smiles from
my favorite regular, getting familiar with the store, flirting
casually with April. I began to genuinely enjoy cashiering.
Then one evening the girl with the pistachio ice cream came
in again--except this time she didn’t have any pistachio ice
cream, and she didn’t have a steak, and no matter how many corny
jokes I told, I couldn’t coax a smile out of her. Her groceries
consisted of chicken broth and noodles, canned soup, wheat
bread, and a thermometer.

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“Brother sick?” I asked.
She managed a nod. She looked miserable; she had eyes worse
than James Dean’s, and hair that looked like she just rolled out
of bed. I thought about asking if there was anything I could do
to help, but decided to mind my own business.
“I hope he feels better.”
“Thanks,” she muttered, flinging something onto her face
that was probably supposed to be a smile.
That threw a wrench in my mood. Even helping April process
a complicated WIC check didn’t help--not even when she beamed
right at me and said, “Thanks, Donald. You’re the best.”
The following Wednesday, the girl was back. It was a busy
night. I had four orders to get through before hers. I scanned
bag after bag of potato chips and cheese fries, ice cream, crab
meat, ribs, a peanut butter cake--this one had to be food
stamps. When I saw her I shot a smile, but she didn’t see it.
She held only one item. A drain catch. She wasn’t wearing
makeup, and she kept clenching and unclenching her fist. I made
up my mind: when she came up, I had to ask if she was all right.
This minding my own business was for the birds. She needed help.
The guy with food stamps thought I overpriced his sticky
buns. Exasperated, I tried to explain that the sale ended
yesterday and I could void it off if he didn’t want it, but he
would have none of it. Why did he even care? He wasn’t paying

6. Friendly Food People / Espey / 6
for it. The old man behind him with the blood oranges smelled
terrible. To my shock, the girl with the drain catch scurried
off to a different lane in the middle of the sticky bun dispute.
She didn’t even wave. She just left. I won’t say it didn’t hurt.
I didn’t see pistachio girl again until last week. In the
meantime, I got a few chances to talk to April. I discovered she
was a college junior like myself, majoring in business
management, and that she rode horses on the weekends. Up close,
her eyes looked like lumps of toffee.
It was during one of these talks, standing at the end of
our lanes, with the Cranberries humming in the background and
the light over my register twitching sporadically, that the girl
came back. I was laughing at something April had said when I
glanced over and saw her heading for my lane. I stepped behind
the register and unlocked the screen.
When I looked up, “Hey! Where’ve you been?” already forming
on my tongue, I saw it. A funeral wreath. Her eyes were
bloodshot and her bottom lip shuddered as she clutched the
wreath in her hands.
“I’m sorry,” I began awkwardly. “Your brother…?”
“It was cancer,” she squeaked. “The chemo didn’t work.”
“I’m so sorry…”
What else was there to say? I was too late. Numb, I scanned
the wreath, took her cash, and handed her the receipt. There

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were stones in my throat. I couldn’t even muster a goodbye.
“Have a great evening” just didn’t cut it anymore.
I locked the screen and ran a shaky hand over my hair,
feeling so sick I could’ve thrown up right there on the belt.
That kid, he was my age. A month ago he was devouring steaks and
ice cream, and now he lay sleeping in a wooden box somewhere.
Bon Jovi was right; nothing lasts in this graceless age.
When I punched out for the night, still shaky, I saw April
heading for the door, car keys in hand. I quickened my pace.
“Hey!” I said, stepping out into the night.
She turned, surprised.
“It’s pretty dark out… mind if I walk you to your car?”
We walked in silence. I was still trying to figure out how
I was going to handle this next part. When we got to her car she
turned to thank me, but I interrupted.
“Hey, by the way, I was wondering… I mean, I hope this
doesn’t sound too crazy, but I was wondering if you might wanna
grab dinner with me tomorrow after work--there’s a great pizza
place somewhere around here--if you aren’t busy--I mean, if it
isn’t too weird eating with a coworker…”
For a second I got scared she might be creeped out and say
no, but then she flashed me that smile, and I knew it was okay.
“I’d love to,” she said.
“Great. Awesome. Thanks. Tomorrow then?”

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“Tomorrow. See ya, Donald.”
Life is short, and I wasn’t taking any chances.